


The Long Way Round

by neveralarch



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: (no actual human-equivalent pregnancy - I'm strictly here for the breeding kink), Abuse of Authority, Anal Sex, Breast Fucking, Breeding, Butt Plugs, Come Inflation, Cuckolding, Double Penetration in Two Holes, Dubious Consent, Gangbang, Genital Piercing, Large Breasts, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Medical Kink, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sexual Coercion, Sluttification, Valve Plugs (Transformers), Vehicular Sex, Vibrators, fucked up worldbuilding for kink purposes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:47:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 32,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27154049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neveralarch/pseuds/neveralarch
Summary: Prowl gets a new assignment. His processor isn't especially happy about it, but his frame (and his tac unit) think it could have some interesting opportunities.(AKA Prowl learns to love getting fragged, all the way from before the war to his time as second-in-command. A Prowl-centric, Jazz/Prowl endgame fic.)
Relationships: Barricade/Prowl, Bumblebee/Prowl, Clobber/Dead End/Prowl, Constructicons/Prowl, Jazz/Prowl, Prowl/Autobots, backgorund Optimus/Ratchet
Comments: 451
Kudos: 298





	1. The Precinct

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to write this fast and loose - no idea of the update schedule, but I'm hoping it'll be frequent. Thanks to Dez for the encouragement and the suggestions!
> 
> Overall, the first half of this fic focuses on sexually coercive situations where Prowl is being pressured into agreeing to things that he doesn't want to do but does physically enjoy. Please let me know if you need more details before reading the fic, I know it can be nerve-wracking to not know where a fic is headed.
> 
> This chapter contains dubcon, sexual coercion, breeding kink, and explicit sex including aft play.

He was working in the evidence archives when Barricade found him, which wasn't unusual. Prowl often worked late, and Barricade often interrupted him, especially when Prowl's work took him to the dark, narrow shelves of the archives. Prowl regarded Barricade as a barely-necessary and ultimately petty evil. It was familiar to let himself sneer at Barricade's false smile, and slap away Barricade's wandering hands.

But this time Barricade's smile didn't go away when he was rebuffed. "Got new orders for you," he said.

Prowl turned back to his filing, stretching to reach a box on the upper shelf. "Leave it on my desk."

"I think you'll want to see these orders," purred Barricade.

He sounded so pleased with himself. That was what made Prowl turn back and look, even though he knew it didn't do to give Barricade his attention.

The datapad that Barricade offered him was brief and to the point. Enforcer Prowl, reassigned to the Enforcer Construction Unit. Effective immediately.

Prowl's processor refused to comprehend the implications, but his tac unit was already busy, spilling out the implications in order of probability. People liked to say Prowl was emotionless, but he felt that a better assessment would be that he simply struggled with expressing himself. When he was _this_ worried and upset he tended to shut down as much of his extraneous processing as he could and focus on the facts.

The facts. The facts were:

"You forged these," he said, beginning with the most probable hypothesis. "My tactical skills are too valuable to—"

Barricade laughed. "That's what got you the assignment, sweetspark. Why settle for one tactician when he could spend a few years giving you five new ones? Weren't you bragging the other day about being sparked with super-RAM or whatever? Usually they only keep enforcers for a couple sparking-cycles, but I bet they keep you a bit longer."

"No," snapped Prowl. He _hadn't_ bragged, he'd merely mentioned it in his (excellent, top marks) performance review. The precinct captain wouldn't give his star detective up to the Construction Unit—would he? No. No, of course not. "You're lying."

"Hmm." Barricade pressed close, his bulkier street-enforcer frame pinning Prowl back against the shelving unit. "You think I can forge the captain's encryption? I know I'm skilled, Prowl, but I'm not a hacker." 

The tac unit agreed with that assessment. Prowl stared at the datapad. The captain's perfectly encrypted glyphs taunted him.

Barricade ran a finger along the underside of Prowl's bumper, his claws flirting with Prowl's grill. "Don't look so glum, darling. If you don't want to join the Frag Unit... Well, maybe I can help you out. I've got plenty more friends than you, friends in high places. I could be interested in making a deal. You know, put in a good word for you."

"A deal?" Prowl's tac unit pinged at him furiously, hungry for data. "What deal?"

Barricade's hand drifted lower, until it rested on Prowl's abdomen. A wide grin split his face. "You know what I want, sweetspark. I've been after you for years, and I don't want to lose you to the factory without getting a taste. Open up that panel like a good mech, and if you're enough fun I'll see what I can do."

Prowl's hand tightened on the datapad he was still holding. It wasn't—it wasn't a _terrible_ deal. If he let Barricade frag him once, he'd buy time enough to make a new plan. If he refused, he'd simply be fragged and sparked by someone else at the Enforcer Construction Unit. Barricade was right, Prowl's ability to maintain a high-end tac unit with nearly full-time use was valuable. The Senate could order the cold construction of enforcers, or redirect a few new-forged into law enforcement, but the results could be... unpredictable. Much better to spark a tried-and-tested enforcer, no matter that enforcer's opinion on the matter.

The tac unit gave Prowl a nudge, and he squirmed in Barricade's arms, turning his back on the mech.

"Cold shoulder, huh?" Barricade leaned back. "Fine, you can get slagged at the—"

"No." Prowl's panel snapped open, exposing his array—his recessed spike, his valve, and his... "Please use my aft port. I don't want to be sparked by accident."

Abruptly Barricade was plastered against his back, his vents hot on Prowl's plating, his fingers already circling the tight ring of Prowl's port. "Kinky," he said. "You done this before?"

"No," said Prowl, and then gasped at the shimmering-bright sensation of Barricade _tugging_ on his port rim.

"You're going to love it," said Barricade, sounding almost awed at what he'd won. "I'm gonna _make_ you love it."

There was a pause, and then a wet noise that made Prowl shiver. Barricade sucking on his fingers? Prowl tried to tune it out and focus on finding the settings that would relax his port and make it easier to frag. He had to sort through dozens of unused functions related to his valve and aft. He'd told Barricade the truth about his inexperience—he'd only spiked a few times, and once he'd tried sticking a few fingers in his valve for the sake of experimentation. He hadn't liked it much. The angle was awkward, the sensations duller than when he touched his spike. He anticipated that the aft port would be even less engaging, since there were only a few electrical connections stored there unlike the full sensory suite of the valve. It would give Prowl plenty of time to strategize his next move while Barricade enjoyed himself.

He found the settings at last and was just about to reset his port diameter when Barricade plunged his fingers in and started opening Prowl manually. Prowl gasped and scrabbled for a grip on the shelves in front of him, knocking over datapads as Barricade shoved into him. It felt like two, maybe three fingers and—and—

 _Frag_ it felt good. Prowl could feel his tac unit taking in the sensation, the sudden rush of enjoyment that almost rivalled the feeling of closing a case. His priority trees began, subtly, to shift.

"That's right, you can scream for me," said Barricade, his voice rough with arousal. "No one here, the rest of the shift's gone home."

Prowl clamped his mouth closed, even as Barricade added another finger. He wouldn't give Barricade the satisfaction of mewling like a pleasure drone, no matter the way his valve was clenching hard around nothing, sensitized by the electrical pulses in his port. How many fingers?

"Maybe you could take my hand instead of my spike," mused Barricade. "Something to try later, if you ever come back."

"Come back?" said Prowl—whined, really, Barricade was rubbing at one of the connection points in Prowl's aft and it was so hard to speak when the tac unit was drinking in the novel sensation. It felt so very... very...

"Oh, yeah, I lied before." Barricade pulled his fingers out, and Prowl couldn't _think_ he was so _empty_. "You're going to the Frag Unit, no matter what I or anyone else does, sweetaft. You got picked out by Sentinel Prime himself."

"What?" Prowl struggled to bring his processor back online, tried to turn around and face Barricade. But Barricade had one hand on the back of his neck and his spike was pressing into Prowl's port. "What are you— _ohhhhh_ —"

"You're so fragging pretty," said Barricade conversationally, his hips smacking hard against Prowl's aft as he thrust. "You're gonna make some gorgeous rookies. More shareware than cops, huh? Precincts all around the planet will be singing your praises. Thank Prowl for those gigantic bumpers, they'll say. Thank Prowl for those spike-sucking lips..."

Prowl should fight him off. He should kick and scream and do _anything_ except slump against the shelves and enjoy the way his port sparked and contracted around Barricade's thick spike as his empty valve drooled lubricant down his legs. Frag, why hadn't he done this before? Fine, Barricade was a slimy creep who was a discredit to the service, but that _spike_ —

"Pity you wanted in the aft," murmured Barricade, his mouth right by Prowl's audial. "If you get in the transport van sparked, they'll leave you alone until it's ready to harvest. You should've begged me to frag your dry little valve. Ah well, too late now. Bet the transport guards will have fun breaking you in."

The tac unit engaged again, feeding on the new information. Yes, fine, Prowl didn't _want_ to be sparked. But he was already getting fragged, and he was going to get sparked soon enough whether he liked it or not. Why not multitask? The tac unit liked efficiency. The tac unit _also_ wanted to know how the conductive properties of transfluid would be expressed in the electricity-rich environment of Prowl's achingly-aroused valve.

Prowl's mouth opened without any conscious input from his processor. "Please," he begged. "Please, wait, please frag my valve, please spark me, please—"

"Hmm, I dunno," purred Barricade. "I like your aft fine."

" _Please_ ," said Prowl. His tac unit prompted him, giving him the strategies he needed to get what he, it, _he_ wanted. "I—No one's ever had my valve before, you could be my first, please, Barricade, _please_ —"

Barricade paused, his spike throbbing in Prowl's port. "Double first? Slag, don't mind if I do."

He pulled out and, while Prowl's tac unit spun on the sudden return of _empty_ , roughly repositioned Prowl so his face was mashed down on a lower shelf and his aft was up and swaying as he tried to balance on kicked-apart legs. Barricade pawed at the plush rubber that cushioned Prowl's valve, spreading it so he could rest the head of his spike at the entrance.

"Probably not gonna last long," said Barricade, and patted Prowl's aft in a mockery of an apology. "I'd give you a round two, but the transport van's coming in about ten. Captain asked me to keep you occupied until then. Did a pretty good job, huh?"

Prowl didn't have a chance to offer his (overall dismal, but recently improved) assessment of Barricade's abilities before Barricade was pressing in, feeling even thicker and hotter in Prowl's unprepared valve.

Tac unit and processor fully offline, Prowl moaned into the cheap metal of the shelf. His aft canted up and back, trying to capture as much of Barricade's spike as possible.

" _So_ fragging pretty," said Barricade. "I'm gonna miss you when you're gone, babe."


	2. The Transport

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains more dubcon, abuse of authority, and explicit sex including double penetration (valve and aft).

Prowl was standing outside the precinct when the transport pulled up. It looked like a perfectly ordinary passenger vehicle, with a neat row of windows and double-wide folding doors. No spikes on the tires or evil black exhaust. Prowl could _almost_ believe that he was merely being sent on a work training, if it weren't for the wet ache of his valve and aft.

He made a last, subtle attempt to free himself from the cuffs that kept his hands pinned behind his back. No good.

Barricade had slapped the cuffs on while Prowl was still dazed from his first ever valve overload. It had been significantly more intense than he'd expected. The tac unit had taken this new value into account and immediately begun scheming ways to exceed it. It seemed unlikely that Barricade was a particularly skilled lover, which meant that someone else could frag Prowl even better…

Barricade pressed a wet kiss against Prowl's cheek, then snickered as Prowl leaned away. "I really am torn up about you leaving, you know. So unfair that the Frag Unit's gonna have all the fun, and I only got to play with you once. Don’t know how I’ll cope."

A heavyset guard came lumbering out of the transport, and Barricade passed her the datapad with Prowl's new orders.

"Nice," she said, looking Prowl up and down. "Big chest, huh? Built for sparking."

"Nice aft, too." Barricade gave it a friendly smack, ignoring the withering glare Prowl gave him in return. "Took a little test drive to remember him by."

All four of the guard's optics dropped down to focus on Prowl's panel. "Yeah, I can see the scuff marks."

Prowl wanted to say something cutting—say something for Barricade to _really_ remember him by. But even now that the warm afterglow of his overload had worn off, his processor still felt like something sticky was caught in his gears. He tried to compensate by redirecting the tac unit onto the problem of banter, but the tac unit only put it in the queue as it continued churning away on the obviously more urgent problem of his empty holes.

Prowl did _not_ agree with this ranking of priorities. He was still fighting with the settings when the guard caught his arm and dragged him up and into the transport.

The transport was full of enforcers, all of them cuffed and sitting on the individual bench seats on either side that left a wide center aisle for the guards to walk up and down. Prowl's guard pushed him down into the last remaining seat. There was a rumble as the transport's engine kicked into drive.

"Right," said the head guard, shifting so he could stay standing as the transport rounded a corner. "Who here's already sparked?"

Prowl couldn't exactly raise his hand, but he flicked his door wings affirmatively when the head guard looked at him. He could already feel the warmth in his chest as his spark drew the extra energy it needed to sustain his new passenger. He hadn't realized it would be so greedy—his fuel efficiency had been cut nearly in half.

A few enforcers shook their heads and, as expected, were quickly paired with guards eager to 'help' their charges with their lonely sparks. The last of those unfortunates was taken by the head guard himself.

"Hey," complained the guard who'd collected Prowl. "What about me?"

The head guard shrugged, his spike already resting on his hapless captive's aft. "Take your pick of the ones that're left. Perk of the job, right?"

"Right." The guard swept her optics over the five or six enforcers who'd arrived already sparked. Prowl made an attempt to hunch below her line of sight, despite the tac unit's protests. He had no interest in getting spiked by a mech her size, no matter what the tac unit was currently gabbling about her likely spike circumference.

But no, the guard was already stalking his way. She stopped right next to him, her hand curling over the backrest of the bench in front of Prowl. "Whaddya say, sweetaft?" she said. "Wanna take a ride?"

'No, not particularly,' Prowl tried to say, but the tac unit froze his voicebox, leaving him gaping like a fool. _Why_ had he allowed it so much autonomy? Just so he could let it take care of routine data entry when he needed to recharge? If only he could go back in time and warn himself of the nymphomaniac it would become.

The guard didn't seem to mind Prowl's silence. "Shy? Aw, don't worry, I'll take care of you." She picked Prowl up easily by his waist, turning so that she could sit sideways on the bench with Prowl's legs spread uncomfortably wide across her broad thighs. "You don't gotta talk, hon, just open up that panel for me."

The tac unit purred, and Prowl's panel snapped open. He realized with mortification that Barricade's excess transfluid had been drooling out of his valve to pool inside his panel, only now to release over the guard's lap.

"Nice," she said. "All warmed up and ready to go? Give me a sec, I'll catch up."

Prowl watched as the guard's panel opened, revealing a truly massive spike housing. She smirked at him as she ran her fingers over the tip of her recessed spike, teasing it out micron by micron.

"You can help," she said, encouragingly. "Here, gimme your hand." 

She triggered the cuff release, and they dropped to the transport floor. Before he could even think of escaping, Prowl's hand was quickly grasped and eclipsed by the guard's much larger one. She wrapped it around her half-emerged spike, squeezing his knuckles a little as they pumped it together. Prowl struggled to wrest control of his vocalizer from his tac unit, which was _clearly_ malfunctioning. Who cared that the guard's spike had a titanium ring pierced through the head? Prowl doubted his valve was sensitive enough to feel the difference.

The tac unit squawked, demanding empirical data.

"Please," managed Prowl. If he _had_ to be spiked, the only thing he could think is that he couldn't be sparked again. He didn't think he could manage the energy consumption. "Could you, I mean—"

"Whatever you want, hon." The guard's hips bucked a little as she thrust up into their hands. "You can tell old Clobber."

"Clobber," said Prowl, "could you use my aft?"

"Oh, you got a kink?" Clobber winked at him. "Well, I kinda had my spark set on this pretty valve of yours, but why don't I start there and if you're _real_ good I'll see what I can do."

That wasn't the kind of deal Prowl had in mind, but Clobber was pulling their hands away to reveal the full extended glory of her spike. She lifted him easily again, Prowl scrabbling at her shoulders to keep balance as she held his thighs even wider.

"Ready?" she said. "One, two—"

Prowl groaned as she pulled him back down onto her spike in one long thrust. His valve strained at the very edge of its parameters with only two-thirds of her spike inside him, and he _could_ feel that fragging ring. Every bump that the transport hit jostled the ring against Prowl's transfluid intake valve, making it expand and contract fitfully as if it wasn't sure how to react to the sensation. The tac unit was having a feast.

It was the biggest spike he'd ever taken—well, of course it was, it was only the second. But the tac unit was convinced that what he needed was _more_. Prowl could feel it orchestrating microtransformations in his pelvis and his waist, opening up more space so that Prowl sunk a little deeper on every thrust.

"Frag, yeah," said Clobber, her voice rough with pleasure. She moved Prowl like a spikesleeve, hauling him up and down her spike at a steady, punishing pace. The transport hit a pothole and Prowl wailed as the impact shoved Clobber up until her hips clanged against his thighs. 

"You're a natural talent, hon," Clobber panted. "I've had mechs twice your size, couldn't take my spike all the way. You want your aft fragged?"

Oh, Primus, Prowl couldn't _imagine_ what this would feel like in his aft. "Ye-yes," he mumbled. "Yes, please."

"No problem." Clobber pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Hey, Dead End, you done with that one? Get over here!"

Prowl twisted to see who she was yelling at, and was greeted by a scrawnier guard shoving his way through the orgy the transport had become. The guard's spike was extended and shining wet, bobbing up against his abdomen as he nearly tripped over an enforcer who was lying in the aisle, gasping and playing with his gaping valve as another guard overloaded onto his face.

This morning, Prowl remembered, he'd been planning an investigation of an organized gambling ring. It seemed completely irrelevant now.

The transport turned and Dead End tripped again, fetching up against Prowl's back. His spike rubbed against the armor at the small of Prowl's back tantalizingly. 

No! No, not tantalizingly. If anything, it was disgusting. Prowl was _not_ giving in to this debauchery.

"What's up?" Dead End asked Clobber. "This nice hunk of metal too much for you?"

"Pfft, please," said Clobber. "My spike's more'n enough for his valve. But I've only got the one, and he wants his port fragged. You in?"

"Pit, yeah." Dead End ran his hands over Prowl's aft, the tips of his fingers pressing against Prowl's port. "Oh, slag, he's already open."

"Yeah, he got sent away wet." Clobber thrust up into Prowl's valve a couple times, making Prowl whine and bury his face in her shoulder. "Hurry up, I'm about ready to blow."

This wasn't what Prowl had meant. He managed to raise his helm, intending to tell them so, but his optics caught on the window of the transport. They'd stopped at a traffic signal, and there was a crowd of mechs waiting at the crosswalk. Some of them were looking away, oblivious or embarrassed, but the vast majority were staring into the transport with wide optics. One pedestrian was even (perhaps unconsciously) stroking her fingers over her own parted, glistening lips as she looked directly into Prowl's optics.

Dead End chose that moment to press his spike into Prowl's port. Prowl's visual processing dissolved into static as he arched back, his bumper shoving against Clobber's chest and his hips squirming as he tried and failed to process the sensation of _two_ spikes, barely separated by the thin wall of silicone that internally separated his port from his valve. When he resurfaced, his valve sparking and his optics only outputting data in black and white, they'd pulled away from the traffic signal. He'd also drooled a little on Clobber's shoulder.

"Tight," groaned Dead End.

"You're telling me." Clobber reached down and ran a finger over Prowl's rubber, tracing the way it stretched taught around her spike. "Frag Unit's lucky they're getting this one, he's gonna be _popular_."

The tac unit seemed almost gleeful as it calculated Prowl's expected number of daily overloads. Prowl was surprised at the number it presented. Yes, clearly the guards were apt to take advantage, but the Enforcer Construction Unit was a bureaucracy, not a bordello. Once he was there, they'd evaluate him, observe he was sparked, and then leave him alone until it was ready to harvest.

The tac unit acknowledged the possibility. In that case, he'd simply have to work harder to entice suitors.

Prowl knew there was something wrong with that sentence, but it was hard to focus on it when Clobber was thrusting like a jackhammer, finally holding deep as her transfluid pulsed directly into the intake valve her spike-ring had teased open.

Prowl felt his chest grow a little hotter. This was _exactly_ what he'd been trying to avoid, but _oh_ it felt good. This was what his valve was made for, his tac unit assured him. It was right to be filled with transfluid, a receptacle for other mechs' pleasure. It was right to be sparked, as many times as he could sustain.

Despite himself, Prowl was beginning to see its point. His valve rippled, trying to draw more of Clobber's transfluid up into himself.

"Come on, come on," muttered Dead End, still fragging Prowl's aft and sending sparks up Prowl's spine. "Hey, Clobber, see if you can make him overload, I wanna feel it."

"Uhuh," said Clobber, exhaustedly. She reached down and pressed one thick finger into Prowl's spike housing, flicking it against just the tip of his recessed spike. Prowl clenched hard against Clobber's depressurizing spike and Dead End's hard one, all three of them moaning at once.

It felt as if Prowl's whole existence was tightening to just encompass his array—the fullness of his aft and valve, the drip of excess transfluid down his thighs, the almost painfully bright sensation of Clobber rubbing the head of his spike. When Prowl tipped over and overloaded, there was barely anything left of him but sensation. He almost didn't notice Dead End flooding his port. 

Clobber flopped back onto the benchseat, dragging both Prowl and Dead End with her in a messy, sticky heap.

"Nice," rumbled the transport. "But clean up my seats before you go off-shift this time."

"Yeah, yeah," said Clobber, stroking Prowl's door wing. "Focus on driving. How you feeling, sweetspark? We're almost at the facility, you excited?"

Prowl didn't have any kind of coherent answer to that question. He tried ineffectually to wipe his face on Clobber's chest instead.

"Must be shy," mumbled Dead End, from where he was lying draped over Prowl's back.

"That's what I said!" Clobber smiled guilelessly. "Don't worry, kiddo, they're gonna love you there."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: the Technician


	3. The Technician

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes dubcon, abuse of authority, and explicit sex including medical kink and uhhh. Tit inflation.

The newly-reassigned enforcers had been hastily wiped down, their panels relatched, and finally herded off the transport and into the Enforcer Construction Unit HQ. Now Prowl was sitting on a chilly medical berth and trying not to fidget as an intake technician examined his spark.

"Congrats," said the technician. "Twins. Whoever sparked you must have some potent transfluid."

Prowl grimaced. "It was two different mechs."

"Don't be silly." The technician drew back, wiping his hands of residual spark energy on a rag. He was a blocky mech in light green and dark purple with a garish orange visor, but his hands were surprisingly delicate. Not a medic, he clearly didn't have a medic's alt. Some sort of craftsman.

 _Forty percent likelihood: engineer_ , said the tac unit.

_Thirty percent likelihood: architect._

_Ninety-five percent likelihood: his spike would feel good inside of you as he thrusts deep into your—_

"I know what I felt," insisted Prowl, a little too loud as he tried to drown out the increasingly detailed calculations. "There was one surge of energy when Barri—When the first sire, ah, completed coitus, and another when—"

The technician scoffed. "Sparking protocols shut down once a newspark is initiated, you _can't_ get sparked twice. Don't you know anything?"

Prowl bit down on the urge to argue further. He _didn't_ know much about reproduction, and he didn't care to. What was important was that he'd been examined and now he'd be left alone for the several weeks it would take his... twins to finish developing.

"Can I close my chest?" he asked. "I'm cold."

"Just the spark chamber," said the technician, picking up a screwdriver. "Leave the bumper unlatched, I have to pull some plating out and it's easier like this."

"Pull—" Prowl flinched as the technician seized one of the interlocking leaves that made up his bumper. "What are you _doing_?

"You're carrying precious cargo, Enforcer Prowl," said the technician, making swift work of Prowl's armor. One of Prowl's headlights fell to the ground. "We need to give them some airbags."

Prowl didn't understand at all. He prodded the tac unit, hoping for _useful_ output this time, but it was too busy spinning strategies for how to convince the technician to frag them. At this rate it would need a hard reboot by a certified mnemosurgeon, and Prowl wasn't going to let a frag unit mnemosurgeon touch his processor.

For now, at least, he was on his own.

The second headlight dropped, the screws that had held it in place pinging off into some unseen corner, never to be found again.

Prowl could, he supposed, resist. Fight the technician off, run out of the room, make a bid for freedom despite the guards outside and the certain death of his career. No, it wasn't worth it. It was better to suffer the indignities, sit quiet and compliant, and bide his time. A posting in the Enforcer Construction Unit wasn't forever. He'd be back among his case files soon enough.

"There," said the technician, when Prowl's chest had been stripped to the protoform, the only remnant of his once-prominent bumper his standard-issue bull bar.

Prowl looked down at his chest and was surprised to see two slight swells in the protoform. He'd never noticed them before—though of course he didn't make a habit of removing his bumper to look.

The technician frowned and prodded one of the swells, making it tingle oddly. "Not much for your size. How often do you interface?"

Prowl couldn't see how that was relevant, and said so.

"These are your overflow pouches," said the technician, condescendingly. "They store excess transfluid to help fuel spark creation and cushion the spark against any damage. And they need to be much bigger."

Prowl had a sudden vision of how they would be made bigger. A train of guards brought into the room, to frag open his empty valve and flood it with transfluid until the overflow pouches reached the desired size. He wished it didn't sound so... appealing.

"Can't you install some heavy-duty armor over my spark instead?" asked Prowl, trying to ignore the flicker of charge in his array.

"That doesn't sound very attractive," said the technician, and unhooked a hose from the wall. "Anyway, you'd have to fuel thirty times a day to keep up with the sparks—transfluid is much more energy-rich. Now lie down. No, on your back."

Prowl rolled onto his back, shifting to try to take the pressure off his door wings. His hands came up to shield his bare chest—silly instinct, the technician had already seen everything there was to see. "What's in the hose?" he asked, because it _couldn't_ be what he thought it was.

"Transfluid!" said the technician, cheerfully. "The emergency supply. Every staff member spends about ten minutes at the end of their shift keeping it stocked—tough job, but someone's gotta do it and it builds morale to see the chief warden jacking it with the rest of us. Now, don't worry, even if you _could_ get sparked, transfluid becomes inactive in storage. This stuff is just for pumping up tits."

"Tits," mouthed Prowl, spreading his legs when the technician tapped his knee. 

The technician didn't ask Prowl to open his panel. He simply reached into a seam with one slim artisan's finger, and flicked the catch open himself. "Nice, already lubricated." His fingers circled around Prowl's valve, then drifted down to his port. "Someone's been having fun with this, huh? You like having your aft fragged?"

Prowl squirmed, but he'd been trained never to lie to a medic or a technician. "Yes."

"Well, let me get this set up and I'll take care of your port next." The technician rubbed the tapered metal cone of the hose through Prowl's slick rubber.

"Isn't there," said Prowl, without much hope, "an auxiliary intake valve for this overflow pouches? You don't _need_ to go in through my valve do y—hngahhh..."

The technician hummed as he worked the hose into Prowl's valve. The widest part of the cone was almost too big to fit—once it popped past his rim, Prowl could feel himself tightening around the narrower hosepipe, forming a seal.

The technician patted his knee again, then stepped away to turn a handle on the wall. Prowl watched with some trepidation as the hosepipe began to stiffen and fill. The technician wasn't even watching—he was rummaging in a drawer, looking for something. Prowl crept one hand down, contemplating pulling the hose out while the other mech was distracted.

Then the fluid began to jet into his valve, and Prowl's transfluid intake valve was knocked open.

It felt—it felt entirely unlike being fragged. It was just the rush of another mech's overload, but stronger and endless and _deeply_ unsatisfying. Prowl wanted—he needed—

The hand that had been about to pull out the hose shifted to fondle his recessed spike the same way Clobber had on the transport. Prowl wished he could blame the tac unit for it, but it was entirely his idea. If something had to be in his valve, he _deserved_ to feel good.

He could see his overflow pouches growing slowly, standing out more from his chest. Prowl touched them with his free hand. Soft. And they tingled again at the contact, like they were live with static charge.

"Here!" said the technician, surfacing from the drawer with an odd brass object—another flared cone, but this one with a ring extending from the base. "We'll get you nice and plugged up."

Prowl froze, one hand on his barely-extended spike, the other hand on his chest. He opened his mouth to explain that he was not, he was _not_ getting off on a dubiously-necessary medical procedure.

" _Wow_ ," said the technician, preempting him. "Yeah, okay, we can do that. You feel good, sweetspark? You wanna feel even better?"

The tac unit perked up at that. _Better_ was always desirable.

"Yes," said Prowl. Regardless of what the tac unit wanted, regardless of what the technician planned, he needed more than this constant teasing flow of transfluid. "Yes, please."

"Raise your hips up a bit, and spread your legs more," said the technician. Prowl struggled to follow the instructions, planting his feet on the very edge of the medical berth—it was difficult to get his balance, and every movement jostled the hose and sent shocks through the rim of his valve.

The technician clucked his tongue and pressed a button on the side of the berth, transforming out a set of stirrups. Once Prowl's feet were locked into those it was much easier to maintain position.

"I'm so glad I got to work on you," breathed the technician, running a finger around Prowl's port. "Usually with new enforcers it's just wham, bam, done, you know? They don't _enjoy_ it."

"I don't—" began Prowl, but he didn't know what to say. He _did_ enjoy it, didn't he? It felt good to have his hole filled. He wanted the technician to fill him. He'd practically _begged_ him to.

The technician rubbed his cheek against Prowl's thigh, held in place by the stirrups. Then he pushed the odd brass object into Prowl's port.

It felt strange for a moment—the metal cold, the shape so unlike the proper spike Prowl was craving. Then the technician tweaked the ring at the base, and the thing began to vibrate.

Prowl's back arched off the berth as his valve spasmed around the unforgiving bulk of the hose. The vibration came in thick, pulsing waves, resonating against the hose and reminding Prowl of when he'd been filled by both Clobber and Dead End on the transport. So good. It was _so_ good.

"Yeah," said the technician, his voice hoarse. The speed of the vibration increased. Prowl felt something touch his chest, and onlined his optics (when had they offlined?) to find the technician groping Prowl's growing overflow pouches. They were big enough to jiggle, now, and when the technician applied pressure the pouches squeezed out from between his fingers. The protoform was becoming less opaque as it stretched—Prowl could almost see the sheen of the fluid being pumped inside.

"You wanna know what's gonna happen to you?" asked the technician, pushing Prowl's pouches together so he could better admire them. The tops of the pouches brushed Prowl's chin.

"Yes," said Prowl. Information. Good. _Frag_ , he wanted to overload.

"Once these gorgeous tits are full, I'll take out the hose and give you another nice little plug for your valve. They magnetize to your rim and you don't get the codes to take them out, but if you're real good I'll tell you how to work the vibration, okay?" The technician leaned down to press a kiss to one of Prowl's pouches, now roughly the size of a minibot's head. "You'll get a room all to yourself, regular energon and check-ups while the sparks develop. And whenever your pouches look a little empty, someone will bend you over and frag you full again."

Prowl's hips jumped, and he squeezed tight around the hose. He didn't know why—it was so far from what he'd imagined, not at all a peaceful chance to recenter and regroup—but he _wanted_ it, his tac unit wanted it, his frame wanted it, he _needed_ to be full.

"Yeah, you like that?" The technician hit another button on the med berth, lowering it to his own hip height. "Hey, turn towards me a little. Yeah, like that. Open your mouth."

Prowl did as he was told, watching as the technician's spike pressurized right into the technician's waiting hand. It only took a few pumps before the technician overloaded, transfluid spilling over Prowl's face and his achingly-full pouches. The tac unit mourned the waste, and Prowl soothed it by licking up the transfluid that had spattered on his lips. The vibrations in his aft felt like they were going straight up his spine and into his processor, shaking away any thought beyond _yes_ and _good_ and _more_.

"Yeah," groaned the technician, and then "oh, slag!" He darted over to the wall to turn off the hose.

Prowl looked down at his chest. His pouches were so big now that they spilled over and around the restraining metal of his bull bar. The protoform was stretched so thin that it was translucent, glowing pink from the transfluid inside. Prowl ran one finger through the transfluid decorating the _outside_ , chasing a little air bubble he could see in his pouch, then stuck the finger in his mouth to clean it.

"A _little_ fuller than I meant, but it looks good on you," said the technician. "Let me get this hose out of your valve."

Prowl kneaded at one of his pouches and shifted his hips so the plug in his aft pressed a little more firmly against the wall separating it from his valve. He almost asked the technician if he could overload on the hose first, or maybe if the technician would frag him himself... but no. He was an enforcer, not some pleasure drone. He wouldn't allow himself to be any more complicit in his own debauchery than he already was.

Anyway, it sounded as if he wouldn't be starved for frags in the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: The Harvest


	4. The Harvest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes abuse of authority and explicit sex, including fisting, breeding kink, and medical kink.

Prowl's room in the Enforcer Construction Unit facility was reasonably sized, with a soft berth, a few chairs, and absolutely nothing to do. Prowl was lying in the berth solving theoretical geometry problems in his processor and idly flicking the vibrator in his valve off and on again when a guard knocked on the door.

It was early for Prowl's evening energon, but the guards didn't always stick to the schedule. Prowl rolled onto his front and spread his legs.

There was a scraping sound as the door swung open. "Hey, Enforcer—Oh, wow." The guard audibly gulped. "I, uh."

"Are you new?" Prowl glanced over his shoulder to regard the stocky utility vehicle. "Hurry up, I was halfway done with my proof."

"They said you were enthusiastic," said the guard, sounding a little dazed. He'd drifted closer, and his hands now rested on Prowl's hips. "But I, I'm not actually here to frag you. It's the end of my shift, I gotta save something for the jerk-off tank, you know..."

"Then what use are you?" Prowl dropped his helm back down to the berth, trying to recapture the hyperdodecahedron he'd been visualizing. "Send someone with a full spike."

"Aw, hey now." The guard's hand dropped down to fiddle with the plug in Prowl's valve. "No need to be rude. I'm _supposed_ to take you in to the techs, but we've got a couple minutes. You want my fingers?"

"Yes, fine," said Prowl. He'd quickly discovered that he couldn't overload just from vibration and a thin plug, but he _also_ didn't have the willpower to just ignore the plugs and leave the vibrators alone. A near-constant state of teased arousal had lowered both his inhibitions and his standards. He'd be ashamed, but—

There was a brief moment of aching emptiness as the guard transmitted the unlock code and pulled the dripping-wet plug out, then a long perfect moment of _full_ as the guard pushed his fingers in and curled them up against Prowl's inner nodes, pressing and rubbing until Prowl's vision crackled with static.

—it just felt so _good_.

\---

"You're late," said the technician when Prowl stumbled into the examination room, walking a little bowlegged to soothe the ache in his valve. He hadn't tried 'fisting' before and he wasn't entirely sure if the strength of the overload was worth the discomfort afterward. He was letting his tac unit crunch the numbers before he decided if he'd try it again.

The technician snapped his fingers in front of Prowl's face. "Hello? Are you listening to me? You're late. Hurry up and get on the table, stop wasting my time."

Prowl glared, but did as he was asked. It was a different technician than the one he'd been seeing—this one was green and purple, yes, with an equally lurid orange visor, but he had a face plate instead of a mouth. It made his expression entirely unreadable as he skimmed the datapad that presumably held Prowl's medical history.

"You should be getting pretty close to harvest," the technician muttered. "Your energy consumption is through the roof. What are you _doing_ with all that transfluid?"

It sounded like a rhetorical question, but Prowl shrugged anyway. One or two of the guards _had_ complained about how much effort it took to keep Prowl's overflow pouches topped off. They were a little low even now, nestling comfortably in Prowl's bull bar instead of overflowing it. Prowl assumed that his newsparks were just especially strong and drawing lots of energy. A good sign, surely? His chest felt hot all the time now too, the protoform over his spark chamber almost searing to the touch.

"Lie down," said the technician, setting aside the datapad. "We'll do the frame exam first."

Prowl was used to this. His usual tech would always ask him to lie down, then he'd play with Prowl's overflow pouches for a little while before running his hands down Prowl's frame to check his valve and port for any problems. Then he'd frag both of Prowl's holes, just to make sure they still worked properly. Prowl's valve was already lubricating and clenching against the plug.

But the new tech's touch was impersonal, almost brusque. He barely fondled Prowl's pouches at all, and when he slipped his fingers into Prowl's valve it was just to realign a slipped caliper, making the residual discomfort fade away. It was... disappointing. Prowl scowled at the thought. Was he so easily corrupted, that he needed a good fragging every ten minutes?

The tac unit began computing an answer, and Prowl forcibly redirected it back to the fisting problem.

The technician was frowning at the plug he'd pulled from Prowl's valve. "Can you close your panel over these?"

Prowl shook his helm. He'd assumed that was by design, to keep him open and available.

"These are too big for you, then." The technician produced an organized set of plugs, and selected one much smaller and even thinner than the one Prowl had been given.

Oh, _no_. The teasing was already bad enough.

"I want to keep the larger size," said Prowl.

"Really? Fine, suit yourself." The tech set Prowl's plug on a tray, hopefully to be reinserted later. "Okay, last thing. Let me see that spark."

It was the first time Prowl had opened his spark chamber since his intake examination; the first time without his bumper armor in place. It took him a few tries to get the transformation right—he had to modify a few steps to avoid pinching his overflow pouches—but in the end he was able to display his spark chamber.

The technician peered at it. After a moment, his visor flared bright neon dismay.

"Who's your regular tech?" he demanded. He groped for the datapad that he'd set to one side, but he didn't seem able to look away from Prowl's spark.

"I don't know his designation," said Prowl. He tried to look down at his spark, but his collar faring was in the way.

"Green and purple like me?" said the technician. "Mouth, or no mouth? How condescending was he?"

"Yes, mouth, very," said Prowl, feeling a little dazed. "Am I dying?"

"Hook," hissed the technician, bafflingly, and then slapped his comm link. "Hook! Get your aft in here!"

 _98% likelihood Hook is a designation,_ said the tac unit's output. Yes, yes, Prowl was quite capable of making the connection himself. He set the tac unit to work on the likelihood that he was dying instead.

The doors to the examination room slid open, and Prowl's regular tech—Hook—sidled in.

"What's all the yelling about, Scrapper?" he began, and then, "Hey! You got Prowl today! Don't you remember I was telling you about him? He's real fun, always up for a—"

"He," said the presumptive Scrapper, frostily, "has seventeen newsparks."

"What?" said Prowl.

"What?" yelped Hook. He pushed past Scrapper to goggle at Prowl's spark. "Seventeen!"

"Which you would've _noticed_ ," said Scrapper, "if you'd done a _proper_ exam instead of fragging around!"

"That's unfair," said Hook, sounding wounded. "I'm a perfect professional, immaculate, you know that. But Enforcer Prowl is _so_ hot, and he always needs help getting his tits up to size, and maybe I got a little distracted and forgot to check his spark—it's just a courtesy check anyway, you don't _really_ need to look unless something weird is going on like—"

"Like a missing line of conception shut off code?" said Scrapper. "No wonder the mech's been having trouble getting enough transfluid, he's got enough sparks in here to make three combiners!"

The tac unit decided it needed more information before it could tell Prowl whether he needed to start making last requests. "Excuse me," said Prowl, "but is this dangerous?"

Scrapper turned back to Prowl. "Are you experiencing any light-headedness, memory problems, blackouts, grayouts, or hallucinations?"

"I don't think so?" said Prowl. He considered it a little longer. "Unless I've forgotten?

"You're probably fine," said Scrapper. "Probably. But we're doing the harvest right now. Hook, scrub your hands and get the vaccuum."

\---

A spark harvest, Prowl was relieved to learn, wasn't _entirely_ unpleasant. It helped that Hook was idly finger-fragging his aft while Scrapper suctioned each newspark into its own holding tank.

"Have to keep you relaxed," Hook had said. "It always helps with the harvest when the carrier feels comfortable."

Prowl was disgruntled to realize that he _was_ more comfortable with Hook playing with his port. It was familiar, that was all. And he liked it when Hook curled his fingers up at the same time as Prowl's spark flared and snapped from another newspark being pulled away.

"Done," announced Scrapper, at last. "A couple _years_ worth of newsparks, and they all look perfectly healthy. You might be looking at early reassignment, Enforcer Prowl. You've certainly done more than your duty."

Prowl perked up. The Enforcer Construction Unit hadn't been as bad as he'd feared, but it was boring and he was running out of geometry puzzles. If this meant he could go back to his case files—

"It'd be a shame," said Hook, still pumping three fingers in and out of Prowl's aft. "I mean, we're always missing quotas, and if Prowl here can sustain seventeen newsparks no problem..."

Scrapper looked at Prowl consideringly. Prowl tried to look like a hard-edged detective who couldn't wait to get back on the streets, but he felt he was likely undermined by the way his tongue poked out when Hook started working a fourth finger inside of him. 

His valve was drooling onto the medical berth, clenching and still agonizingly empty without his familiar plug. Scrapper was looking at that too.

The tac unit, long since forgotten, pinged Prowl with the notification that fisting _was_ worthwhile, and it was delighted to observe that Prowl was trying it in his port this time. Prowl couldn't help but let out a whimper at the thought.

Scrapper's panel snapped open, and his spike pressurized into his waiting hand. "Get the others," he told Hook. "Let's see if we can get him to a round twenty this time."

Prowl probably should have been horrified. But in the moment, there was only the helpless clenching of his port as Hook pulled his fingers out, and the easy loosening of his valve to welcome Scrapper’s spike in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: The Fall


	5. The Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains sexual references and off-screen warfare.

Prowl had been a resident of the Enforcer Construction Unit facility for several interminable years when the bombs fell.

He'd long since run out of good geometry puzzles. The only thing that relieved the boredom was getting fragged and trying to escape—escapes that were inevitably ruined when he was spotted by a guard and, yes, fragged. Prowl didn't try very hard to run when he was caught, especially when the tac unit was whispering to him about just how much he liked being shoved up against a wall and taken there. Prowl was beginning to think he'd be stuck in the ECU until the Chief Enforcer decided he had enough tacticians to staff every city-state and all the colonies besides.

But then there were the deep, rumbling thuds, and the abrupt darkness as the lights shut off.

Prowl's room was in one of the basement levels, so there was no chance of natural light. He dearly missed his headlights—his overflow pouches might be enjoyable, but they did little to illuminate the room. He waited a few minutes to see if the emergency lights would come on. There were a few more thuds, and some dust shook down off the ceiling. The only light was the dim glow of Prowl's optics and his biolights.

 _Ninety-three percent likelihood: enemy attack_ , suggested the tac unit.

What enemy? Prowl didn't know. He was _deeply_ out of touch. But he didn't especially like his chances if he stayed put and waited to find out.

His door opened easily. They were set to unlock in the event of a power outage, in order to allow the occupants to evacuate. Prowl and his fellow enforcers were staff, not prisoners—no matter what Prowl privately thought of his situation.

He ventured into the hallway, pushing his biolights as bright as he could make them. The facility seemed eerily silent, besides the thuds. It was the middle of the night, but there should still be a skeleton guard.

Prowl glanced at the board hanging on the wall next to his door, where the guards always wrote that week's code for unlocking his valve and port plugs. 59009 this time. How clever.

He walked to the staircase, opened the door, and was almost bowled over by a guard.

"Oh good, you're out," she gasped. "Go up to the first basement level bomb shelter, we're uh. Being bombed. So we need to shelter. Oh, frag. I'm gonna clear this level, good luck!"

"Yes," said Prowl, to her hurrying back. Then he climbed the staircase, with no intention of going to a likely packed bomb shelter. You had to take opportunities where you could find them.

Enemy assault, confusion, evacuation, a few overwhelmed guards—this perfectly fit Hypothetical Scenario Five Alpha Mauve. Which meant Prowl needed to get to the medbay while it was still empty.

After stumbling up the pitch-black stairs, it was a relief to find that the emergency lights were working on the medbay level. Prowl followed the strip of yellow-green on the floor until he found a door that had been carelessly left unlocked. He wondered who was to blame—Scrapper was too competent to forget, but Hook was easily distracted enough. Or maybe Long Haul, the one with the deliciously thick spike that stretched Prowl's valve until his nodes were—

Another thud shook Prowl out of his reverie. The noise was louder here in the upper basement, and more dust fell from cracks that were beginning to appear in the ceiling. Prowl needed to get what he'd come for and get out.

The examination room was similarly lit in ghostly yellow-green. Prowl took stock.

In some ways he was fortunate—his latest crop of newsparks had been harvested earlier that week, and in the meantime his spark chamber had been left fallow. Prowl was awaiting the next stud the ECU had selected to strike that next round of sparks. Gone were the days when just anyone was allowed to spark him, a frequent complaint of Hook's. The first batch of sparks had yielded only one decent tactician, while the rest had been a jumble of construction vehicles and heavy bruisers, entirely unsuitable to technical work... at least according to the assessment memo from the Chief Enforcer. Prowl had his own thoughts on the matter, but he hadn't been asked for them.

In any case, these days he was _only_ to be sparked by the best and brightest of the enforcer officers. At the moment, that left Prowl unsparked _and_ fitted with a contraceptive disk since he couldn't be expected to suffer a whole week of celibacy just to accommodate the stud's schedule. Deprived of a regular dose of transfluid, his overflow pouches had shrunk to a comfortable weight close against his chest. He really only needed a few modifications before he would be in the condition to run.

There was some scrap metal tossed in a corner. Prowl found a sheet of approximately the right size and bent it until he could slide it between his bull bar and the overflow pouches. Welding the edges in was awkward, even with the use of a mirror, but Prowl thought it likely that he could pass it off as a hasty battlefield fix. He looked himself up and down in the mirror and decided he looked much less like a spike-hungry trollop. Good. That left only...

Prowl considered the plugs in his valve and port, the ones that were too big to close his panel over. He could simply take them out and leave himself empty. For the first time in _years_. He could.

The tac unit produced a calculation. Another thud reverberated through the room.

A search of the drawers produced a case of variously-sized plugs. Prowl took the oversized ones out of his holes, then replaced them with a smaller pair, coaxing his calipers to close a little and clench the plugs tight. Finally, he carefully disinfected the oversized plugs and put them in the case with the others, which he subspaced.

There. Prepared.

The tac unit spit out odds of survival and escape. The safest path was to join the guards and the other assigned enforcers in the bomb shelter, at least until the shelling stopped. The safest path, but the one with the least likelihood of escape.

Prowl smiled to himself. If nothing else, at least he was no longer bored.

He took the stairs two at a time, all the way up to the surface.

\---

The refugee camp was full of the walking wounded and only a few exhausted soldiers handing out tiny cubes of energon. It was also the first sign of hope Prowl had seen since leaving the facility.

"Hi," said the little yellow minibot, looking up at Prowl from the pile of debris that was currently serving as a desk. "Designation, please?"

Prowl hesitated. He was exhausted, dirty, and he hadn't overloaded in _three days_ , but his processor still worked and the tac unit was still calculating odds of escape. "What do you intend to do with it?"

"Add you to the ration list." The minibot waved at a messy stack of datapads. "All of the Praxian records got destroyed in the bombing as far as we can tell, so I can't just scan your ident chip. I've got a list for rations, a list for medical care, a list for fragging everything, and I gotta do it all manually."

"That seems inefficient," said Prowl. "Doesn't the government have a mobile database mech they can send?"

The minibot laughed. "We're not the government, mech. The Senate got taken out last week, and good riddance. We're just... concerned citizens. You can call us the Autobots."

"You're a militia?" asked Prowl, uncertainly. He was still racing to catch up with current events. He'd never heard of a Decepticon before he saw their symbol on an unexploded shell.

"Yeah, sure," said the minibot. "Just a bunch of mechs who think _maybe_ we don't need to bomb the whole planet to reform the government. Plus, you know, the true Prime."

"I see," said Prowl. He didn't, not entirely, but it was enough information to make a decision. "I'm Prowl, late of the Praxian Enforcers. Master tactician, detective, and," he nudged the stack of datapads, "data specialist. What do I need to do to join the Autobots?"

The minibot leapt to his feet and grabbed Prowl's hand, shaking it hard enough to almost unbalance Prowl. "Welcome! Yes! You're in! Here, read these."

The datapads were shoved into Prowl's arms, and he was guided to sit behind the pile of rubble alongside the minibot.

"I'll put you on the list for your ration," the minibot chattered, "or, I guess you'll put yourself on the list, once you've got it up and running. Give yourself a low-level priority for the medbay too, Ratchet can smooth out those welds on your chest once he's less slammed. Did you do those yourself? Suppose it must've kept you from bleeding out or whatever. You can bunk up in the Autobot quarters—it's just a blasted-out warehouse like all the others, sorry, but at least then you can meet Optimus and Jazz and Ironhide and everyone. I'm Bumblebee, by the way. Wow, I'm glad you turned up. We have _no_ idea what we're doing."

"Yes," agreed Prowl, who had expected to be subjected to several days' worth of interviews and tests in order to determine that he was who he claimed to be and was _not_ a Decepticon spy. "I can see that."

Bumblebee beamed at him, and then turned to the next refugee stumbling up to the desk. "Hi!" he chirped. "Designation?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: The Meeting.


	6. The Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another timeskip here! I just. Really wanted to get to Jazz.
> 
> This chapter contains explicit sex, including dubcon/noncon, gangbang, degrading language/slutshaming, and allusions to nonconsensual voyeurism. If you're concerned about this chapter, it might be worth clicking through to the endnotes for a spoiler - but obviously I think it can be fun to read as is too.

Prowl was in a meeting. He couldn't really remember when the meeting had started, but Red Alert was finishing up his presentation and Prowl knew it was his turn to speak. He stood up.

"The capabilities of the Decepticons," he said, glancing at his notes, "have recently been enhanced by the acquisition of a titanium alloy which, if refined, has the potential to—"

Optimus groaned. It wasn't a quiet noise. It was loud, showy, and designed to make Prowl startle and snap his mouth shut. As he did.

"I can't take it anymore," said Optimus, shoving his chair back from the head of the conference table. "Watching you pretend to be an officer when we all _know_ what you are."

"Excuse me?" Prowl rocked back, his shins bumping against his chair. "I'm second in command of this army."

"Please." Optimus snorted. "Like we'd really let a spikesleeve play at command."

Prowl's mouth opened, but no words came out. He stood frozen for an achingly long moment until Ironhide came up behind him and shoved him face first onto the table.

"It was obvious," said Ironhide. "Way you walk. Way your aft sticks out like you want something all the time. The buzzing noise we hear when you're stuck on monitor duty. You thought we wouldn't notice?"

Prowl struggled onto his back. Yes, all right, he _did_ use his plugs at inappropriate times, but only to keep his tac unit satisfied and on task. He tried to tell Ironhide that, but Ironhide's panel was open and his spike was rising proudly between his legs.

Prowl realized _his_ panel was open too. When had that happened? And where were his plugs? His valve was clenching helplessly on nothing, smearing lubricant on the table.

"Fill that," said Optimus. "Before he drenches the whole room."

Ironhide smirked as he grabbed Prowl by the thighs and yanked him onto his spike. Prowl's visual processing spasmed, leaving streaks of color across his field of vision. Oh, he'd been _so_ hungry for a good, thick spike. He wanted so badly to be fragged.

No. No, he wasn't supposed to want that. He was _second in command_ of the _army_.

Ironhide dragged Prowl's hips up, seeking out an angle that would let him go deeper. It left Prowl with no leverage, balanced on his door wings, helplessly accepting Ironhide's heavy thrusts. His hands scrabbled at the table, trying to find something he could use to... what? Escape? Was that what he wanted?

"What the frag," muttered Ironhide. "Something in here. Can't hit the back of his valve like I should."

Ratchet tapped Ironhide's shoulder. "Here, let me."

Ironhide took a couple extra thrusts before dropping Prowl's hips and slowly withdrawing from Prowl's valve, his spike shining with thick lubricant. Prowl's mouth watered, but he tried to scramble off the table while he was free.

Not quick enough. Ratchet caught him with a hand on his midriff and shoved him back down.

"I replaced the contraceptive myself when the old one expired," said Ratchet, his voice conversational even as his clever medic fingers delved into Prowl's valve. "Thought it was a little funny at the time. Only sluts worry about getting sparked up, right, Optimus?"

Prowl missed Optimus' response, too startled by the pinch as Ratchet pulled the contraceptive disk out of his valve. He was empty barely a moment before Ratchet thrust his spike in. He was just as long and thick as Ironhide, and the head of his spike easily reached Prowl's transfluid uptake valve.

"No," gasped Prowl. "No, no, please, don't spark me, please—I'm useful, I'm more useful as a tactician, I don't want to be bored again, _please_ —"

"Selfish," rumbled Optimus. Prowl couldn't see him, but his engine was very close. The thrumming of it was so strong that Prowl could feel it in his valve, making him squeeze hard around Ratchet's unforgiving length.

"You know we need more soldiers," said Optimus. "And you'll give them to us, won't you? It's all you're good for."

"No," said Prowl, even as he overloaded on Ratchet's spike. "No, no, I'm _useful_."

"Frag yeah you are," groaned Ratchet, and then there was transfluid flooding Prowl's valve. Primus, there was so much. How could all that come from one mech? Soon Prowl's internal tanks couldn't take it anymore, and Prowl's chest transformed open to free up more space. Prowl could only watch as his overflow pouches began to fill.

"Oh, _nice_." Ironhide took Ratchet's place, slamming his spike into Prowl's valve and reaching with both hands for Prowl's pouches. "How big do these get? You really were made for this, huh? Little frag-drone."

"I'm not," said Prowl, but it was muffled by the way his pouches bounced against his face every time Ironhide bottomed out. "I'm—"

"Yeah, yeah." Ironhide smacked Prowl's array to shut him up, the tips of his fingers catching Prowl's spike housing and his anterior node. Prowl made a startled noise and his hips jerked up to meet Ironhide's next thrust.

"Oh, you like that?" Ironhide grinned and did it again. And again, and again, until Prowl was wailing through a second overload, lubricant almost spraying from his valve. Ironhide held Prowl's hips and ground in deep, his own overload pulled out of him by the rhythmic clenching of Prowl's valve.

Prowl's pouches swelled further with Ironhide's transfluid, big enough now that he couldn't see over them. He lay there, exhausted by his overloads, wishing guiltily that someone would frag his aft.

"Is your port feeling lonely?" asked Optimus, as if he'd heard Prowl's thoughts. Ironhide had pulled out, leaving Prowl spread open and dripping. Optimus ran one massive finger down through the wet mess of Prowl's valve, and then slowly pressed into Prowl's port.

Prowl arched up, his hands clutching at his own overflow pouches just to hold on to _something_.

"I don't know if my spike will fit in there," said Optimus, thoughtfully.

"Please," said Prowl, not at all sure what he was asking for. "Please, please—"

"You'll fit," said Ratchet, from where he was sprawled lazily in a chair. "I've got his specs on file. He could take a shuttle's spike in his port, valve, or mouth. His whole frame is formatted to let you get as deep as possible."

"Excellent," said Optimus. "Red Alert, are you recording?"

"Of course," said Red Alert. "I'm always recording. I've got a whole compilation vid of every time Prowl thought he was alone—you wouldn't _believe_ what he gets up to in his office."

"I'm sure." Optimus withdrew his finger from Prowl's port. "Just make sure you get a good angle on the slut's aft, won't you?"

Prowl didn't have time to feel offended before Optimus was taking his aft in one long thrust. Prowl spread open easily, even without proper preparation. He gritted his teeth against a moan, squeezing his overflow pouches until the protoform ached. He _wasn't_ a slut, he _wasn't_ made for this, he was _second in command_ —

Ohh, but Optimus' spike felt good. It was easily the biggest spike Prowl had ever taken, with ridges that massaged his inner walls and a set of broad contact points on the head that sparked every time they met the receptor at the apex of Prowl's port. When Optimus held himself deep and ground against the receptor, Prowl couldn't hold back any longer.

"Primus," he gasped, his valve clenching on nothing. 

"No," said Optimus, pulling out entirely. " _Prime_."

Prowl had barely registered either the words or the emptiness before Optimus was flipping him over onto his front. Prowl's hips were yanked up and he tried to push himself up on his hands, but then Optimus thrust back in and Prowl lost his balance. The overflow pouches were the only thing that kept Prowl from planting face first on the table—they were so big that Prowl _couldn't_ lie flat.

The new position let Optimus really pound into Prowl's aft. Prowl's only comfort was that no one could see his expression. Couldn't see the way his optics flickered, his jaw dropped, and his tongue lolled when he surrendered to the Prime.

"Hey," said lilting voice. "Having a good time, babe?"

It took Prowl a few tries, shaken as he was by the continued plundering of his aft, but he managed to look up. Sitting on the table in front of him, legs sprawled and visor bright, was the mech he most and least wanted to see in the world.

"Jazz," gasped Prowl, swallowing his shame at the situation even as Optimus hips clanged against his aft, "Jazz, you have to help, you have to help me get out of—"

Jazz caressed Prowl's cheek and stuck his thumb in Prowl's mouth. "Shh," he said. "Don't get all worked up. I am helping you, we all are."

Prowl made a disbelieving noise around Jazz's thumb. Jazz shoved his index and middle finger in there too, pumping them in and out until Prowl began to suck on instinct.

"Yeah.” Jazz grinned. "You weren't _happy_ as just another tactician, Prowler, we could all see that. You need to be fragged all the time, passed around from mech to mech, kept filled up and carrying our sparks. Don't worry, we're gonna take care of you. Once we're done here, I'll take you out to the mess hall. Lay you out on a table, let all the frontliners have you first. I think you'll be a good morale booster. Little perk for the troops, right?"

Prowl’s tac unit, heretofore unnaturally quiet, leapt to the forefront of Prowl’s processing. It had noticed the way Arcee and Sunstreaker looked at him as they passed in the hallways. It wanted to know if they’d make good on the promises of those lustful gazes…

Jazz's panel snapped open, and he pulled his fingers out of Prowl's mouth to wrap them around his rapidly pressurizing spike. He pumped it a few times in front of Prowl's face, while Prowl's mouth watered and he wondered if he could reach Jazz's spike while Optimus was still holding his hips in place.

But good things came to those who waited. Jazz scooted forward a little and then guided Prowl's helm down, allowing him to slowly swallow the head and then the shaft of Jazz's spike. 

"That's it, baby," murmured Jazz. "Show me what you're good for."

Optimus chose just that moment to slap Prowl's aft, making him yelp and squeeze tight around Optimus' spike. Jazz snickered and jerked his hips up, fragging Prowl's face in time with the rhythm of Optimus' slaps. 

Prowl could feel it as his analytical thinking began to shut down and more pleasure receptors came online. His tac unit, having come to the conclusion that there was no way to escape and no good reason to either, was ruthlessly prioritizing processing power. It wanted him to feel as much as possible, to remember how good he could feel. This was what he _needed_ , what he craved, what he'd been dreaming—

Dreaming—

Of—

Prowl rolled over in his berth, unable to get comfortable. His fans were roaring, his panel was open, his valve was dripping wet, and there was someone making grumbling noises right next to his—

Oh.

"Jazz," hissed Prowl, onlining his optics to stare into Jazz's slack face. "Are you awake?"

"Nrrrgh," groaned Jazz, covering his visor with the heels of his hands even as his engine kicked up out of neutral. "Wha'? Whass goin' on."

"I had a dream and I'm aroused," said Prowl. "Please, can you spike me? I'll ride you, you don't need to get up."

Jazz peeked at Prowl from between his fingers. "You're horny? Some dream, I guess."

"Yes," agreed Prowl. "Please, Jazz, I need—"

"I gotcha." Jazz flopped onto his back and snapped his panel open, his spike quickly rising to attention. "It's all yours, babe."

"Thank you." Prowl scrambled up on top of Jazz. He paused for a moment of deliberation, but then he pulled the plug from his aft and sank down on Jazz's spike. He knew his contraceptive disk was still securely in place... but this felt better. Safer. Also, importantly, _good_. Once he was fully seated on Jazz's spike, he began triggering the vibrator in his valve in long pulsing waves. He rocked a little as he began to play with his own recessed spike.

"Frag." Jazz reached up and touched—a headlight, not an overflow pouch, Prowl didn't keep those filled any more. Jazz didn’t even know they existed, all he knew was what Prowl had now. _Who_ Prowl was now. Prowl arched his chest forward, the better to let Jazz touch.

"You're something else," said Jazz, wonderingly. "Ohh, I'm gonna be exhausted during shift tomorrow."

"Yes," agreed Prowl. After all, he fully intended to wring as many overloads as he could get from his one and only lover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was all a dreeeeeeeam....
> 
> Next: The Lover


	7. The Lover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains fully consensual sex! Wow!

Jazz woke up to an empty berth, a terse good morning note in his comm logs, and a sticky, well-used array. Another great day in the Autobot army. Truly Jazz was living his best possible life.

Did that sound sarcastic? Jazz meant it! He’d done a lot of things in his time, and he didn't think he'd enjoyed any of them as much as he enjoyed doing Prowl. The mech was just one hundred percent a catch. Gorgeous, brilliant, surprisingly considerate, and absolutely _obsessed_ with Jazz’s spike.

Jazz remembered all those years ago when Prowl had walked into the bombed-out warehouse they used to call Autobot HQ. He’d cocked his hip and looked the command staff up and down, his cold optics obviously assessing their skills and finding them wanting... Jazz's first thought had been 'damn, that aft is fine.' His second thought had been 'too bad I'll never get to touch it.' He'd been so delighted to be proven wrong about six hours later, when Prowl had asked his permission to drag him behind a pile of rubble and have his way with him.

Prowl pinged Jazz his ten minute start-of-shift warning. Jazz stretched luxuriously and rolled out of berth. Washracks, mess hall, command meeting. He'd probably be a couple minutes late, but OP wouldn't mind.

The plan went out the window when Jazz took a little more time in the washracks than he really needed, getting all the lubricant out of his seams. Pumped his fingers into his valve a couple times, thinking about how badly Prowl had needed it that night. Sexy dreams... It had _felt_ like a sexy dream, waking up with Prowl pawing at his panel, needing to be filled up. Jazz made a great effort of will to snap his panel shut and turn off the solvent spray. He deserved a medal, really.

Prowl pinged him again. Start of shift/where are you/we're _starting_. Jazz flung himself out of Prowl’s quarters, hitting the corridor at a run. He slowed to a saunter just before he hit the main intersection with all its sightlines—it wouldn’t do to _look_ like he was in a hurry. And there was Bumblebee, headed the other way and juggling three rations.

"Aw, you shouldn't have," said Jazz, snagging one. "You're a doll, Bee."

"That's for Wheeljack!" yelped Bumblebee. "Get back here, you sneakthief!"

Jazz just cackled and skidded around a corner when Bumblebee made to give chase. A few quick turns (and a few near collisions with poor passersby) and Jazz was home free, the door of the conference room sliding shut behind him and cutting off Bumblebee’s truly hurtful invectives.

The command staff looked up from their important 'doodling on the agenda' business. Jazz waved and took a sip of his energon. Ooh, amethyst sprinkles. Wheeljack had good taste.

Red Alert was finishing up his presentation as Jazz slid into his seat at Prowl's side. Something about the Decepticon menace but, like, the menace at home? Well, Jazz hadn't had a problem with double-agents since he'd dissected the last one into a million careful little pieces, but there was always a chance. He'd keep an eye out.

Prowl was next on the agenda. He pushed his chair back and stood up, giving Jazz a gorgeous view of his thighs. It really was convenient that their paint scheme was so similar. No awkward paint transfers—Jazz could only just see the streaks of his slightly lighter black on Prowl's inner thighs, and not only did he have an exceptionally advanced visual processing suite, he _also_ already knew they were there. Felt nice. Like a secret just for them.

To be fair, most of their relationship was a secret just for them. Prowl was a private mech, and he didn’t like talking about his personal life. Jazz vibed with that, he hadn’t even told Optimus he was living in the vents until he’d been working for the Autobots for about four months. Optimus had thought Jazz had been staying somewhere else and only coming in for his shifts, the poor, naïve mech. Totally freaked when that piece of rusty ductwork gave out and dropped Jazz right onto his desk.

"The capabilities of the Decepticons," Prowl said, glancing at his notes, "have recently been enhanced by the acquisition of a titanium alloy which, if refined, has the potential to—"

Prowl paused. Looked around the room. "Optimus," he said, "did you say something?"

Optimus startled, looking up a little guiltily from the datapad where, if Jazz's data sensors weren't deceiving him, he'd been playing one of his little word puzzle games. Buggle, Bagel, something like that.

"No," said Optimus, unable to look Prowl in the optic. "I'm listening very carefully to what you have to say."

"Oh," said Prowl, like that wasn't the answer he'd been expecting. "Maybe I heard Ironhide?"

"Naw," said Ironhide, not even bothering to look away from _his_ datapad. "Nobody said anything. We're all rapt'rous with attention."

"Oh," said Prowl, again. "Yes. Good. Anyway. If refined, the alloy has the potential to—"

Jazz set a program to collate key words and bullet points, and then devoted the rest of his attention to Prowl's thighs. Primus, they were gorgeous. If Jazz were a poet he'd be composing odes to them, but his musical talent lay more in the realms of the instrumental and Prowl didn't do so well with non-mathematical composition. He'd have to settle for lying the helms of Decepticons at his feet instead.

He had a mission today. Plenty of opportunities to do exactly that. Quick infiltration, more for information than anything else, but if Jazz saw an opportunity to bag someone on the most wanted list... Well, initiative was well-rewarded in Prowl's berth.

The rest of the meeting was spent daydreaming about his mission. He'd have Prowl's voice in his audial, a knife in his hand, the threat of discovery sliding electric down his spine—what more could a mech ask for?

"Yes, thank you," said Prowl, nodding at something Optimus had said as the meeting wrapped up. He put his hand on Jazz’s shoulder as Jazz made to stand up. "Jazz, would you mind staying behind a moment? I have a few questions about today's mission."

Jazz waited obediently as the door closed behind the last of the command staff. "What's up, Prowler?"

Prowl sat on the edge of the conference table, his panel sliding open to reveal the twin rings of the plugs in his valve and port. "Would you frag me before you go?" he asked.

Ohh yeah. That. That was what more a mech could ask for. Jazz leaned forward, nearly falling out of his chair before he caught himself. There was lubricant dripping out from around Prowl's valve plug, and Jazz reached out to catch it on one trembling finger.

"No," said Prowl. "I want you in my port."

"Yeah, of course," said Jazz, easily. Prowl wasn't in the mood for valve stuff often, but he _loved_ having his port railed. Jazz was happy to oblige. Sex with Prowl was like getting to watch a virtuoso performance, three times a day, for free. All Jazz had to do was hang on and keep rhythm.

Prowl laid back on the conference table when Jazz nudged him, his thighs spreading wide. Jazz hooked the ring of Prowl's port plug and slowly drew it out of him.

"What do you want, babe?" purred Jazz, as he stroked his spike out to its full length. "Four-four time? Eleven-eight? Ooh, what about twenty-one-sixteen?"

"Staccato," said Prowl, hooking his legs over Jazz's shoulders. "Interpret that as you will."

"Twenty-one-sixteen it is," said Jazz. "I got a beat in mind that's gonna knock your filters out."

"Just hurry up," said Prowl, grumbly like only a few hours without a good overload could make him. "I don't like being empty."

"Your wish is my command, darlin'," said Jazz, and slid himself home.

Prowl arched up, just like he always did, instinctively trying to get as much of Jazz as he could. _Frag_ , Jazz was lucky to have him. He'd interfaced with a lot of mechs—pros, semi-pros, amateur enthusiasts—but he'd never met anyone who liked sex quite as much as Prowl. It was truly a pleasure to serve.

"There," gasped Prowl. "There there there _harder_ —"

Prowl's port was _so_ tight, and—yeah, frag yeah, he'd triggered the vibrator in his valve. Jazz gritted his teeth and stuck to the beat. He wasn't overloading early no matter what, it was a point of pride. Prowl got there first, maybe two or three times if they had the time and Jazz could manage it. _Then_ Jazz could have his.

The vibration was making it hard, buzzing against the head of Jazz's spike every time he bottomed out. He shrugged off one of Prowl's legs, reaching two clawed fingers into Prowl's spike housing to coax out a couple inches of Prowl's shaft. _Primus_ , the way Prowl squeezed around him when Jazz rubbed the pads of his fingers over the head of Prowl's spike. Yeah, he wasn't gonna last this time around.

"You're so gorgeous," mumbled Jazz, trying to hold his overload in by force of will. "So hot. Were you thinking about this during the whole meeting?"

"Uhuh," said Prowl, his optics glazed. He looked like he was going to say something else, but then he bit his lip and overloaded, transfluid streaking across Jazz's hand as lubricant squelched out over and around Jazz's spike. Jazz only needed a couple more thrusts and then he was overloading too, holding himself deep as his hips ground against Prowl's armor.

Jazz allowed himself a couple seconds recovery before he pulled out and wiped himself off with a cleaning wipe from his subspace. You learned to carry supplies when you were fragging Prowl. Another wipe to clean Prowl up, another for the table, and it was like nothing grossly unprofessional had ever happened there. Jazz beamed at Prowl, still lying on the conference table, his door wings askew.

"Think that'll tide you over until I get back?" he asked.

"Yes," said Prowl, blearily. He reached up to rub his face. "You will _try_ to get back quickly, won't you? For me?"

"Anything for you, love." Jazz patted Prowl's knee. "You know that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: The Mission


	8. The Mission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains minor violence and character injury, in an action-movie kinda way.

Okay, so it was _supposed_ to be a nice, easy mission. Get into the Decepticon field office, eavesdrop on a couple meetings, steal a couple data disks, and home free. No muss, no fuss, and back in Prowl's berth in time to eat him out for dinner.

Now, you know. Things were a little on fire.

"Tried my best to keep it chill," Jazz gabbled into his comm as he stomped out a flame that was threatening to eat some especially interesting-looking flimsies. "But Ravage was here—you remember Ravage, I love Ravage—"

"Yes," said Prowl, sighing. "You love Ravage."

"She's so smart," said Jazz, and stuffed a handful of flash drives into his subspace. "And she learns from her mistakes, which I guess is why this time when I dropped out of the vents she had a flamethrower all ready and waiting."

"Just get out of there with whatever intelligence you can gather," said Prowl, flatly. "There's no sense prolonging a busted mission."

Jazz frowned. He hated to hear that tone of disappointment in his Prowler's voice. There had to be _something_ he could do to rescue this fiasco.

It was just a field office, out in the barren plains of Protihex. Any seriously crucial info had been torched by Ravage first, even before she turned the flamethrower on Jazz. There weren't any major players he could capture and interrogate for his beloved either. Ravage had only swung by for a spot check, which had been unlucky for Jazz. And she'd bailed right out of there as soon as the flamethrower ran out of fuel, which was even unluckier. Jazz would _love_ to capture Ravage. He'd take her to the Autobots, show off his digs, turn her upside-down and shake out all the tasty, tasty classified information...

Jazz shook it off. Maybe someday, but someday wasn't now. What would be a good apology gift for Prowl...

He caught movement flickering past the open door out of the corner of his optic, and he was out of the room and halfway down the corridor before his processor caught up to his legs.

"I've got optics on—" he paused as he matched the fleeing figure to his database. "—Barricade. Worth a capture?"

" _Barricade_?" Prowl was silent for four tenths of a second, which wasn't like him. "No," he said at last. "Kill on sight."

"Huh," said Jazz. His gait continued, quick and silent, but he took a longer assessment of the oblivious Decepticon running ahead of him.

"Is there a problem?" asked Prowl.

"No," said Jazz. _Nobody_ was an auto-kill on sight, not even Megatron. Optimus didn't like it, and anyway it was a waste of potential intelligence resources. In fact—yeah, Jazz had Barricade's file up on his HUD now, and there wasn't any kind of serious tag on it. He was just a mid-level Decepticon grunt. He'd never even developed a death ray or anything, which seemed to be the traditional Decepticon pastime.

He _was_ a Praxian enforcer, though. It was an easy frame type to spot, all heavy reinforced armor and showy door wings. Barricade didn't have the sweet curves of Prowler, but he still had the black and white paint job. Maybe Prowl had known him before the bombing? 

He was just about to ask Prowl about it when Barricade finally noticed he was being followed.

The startle response was lovely. Barricade's door wings shot up, and he half-tripped over his own feet as he tried to run faster and realized he couldn't. Then he looked over his shoulder, like knowing who was chasing him would somehow help him get away. Jazz gave him a little grin and a wave. Barricade nearly tripped _again_ before he realized that he could maybe make a better go of it on wheels.

Jazz let him have a _bit_ of a head start, jogging after Barricade's rapidly disappearing taillights. It wouldn't be as much fun otherwise, and Jazz was a firm believer in living life to the fullest.

Then he somersaulted into alt, his tires hitting the ground already spinning. His backend fishtailed a little as he wriggled with anticipation before his engine roared and he was off.

Barricade was just fast enough to make it a chase. Frag, Jazz loved a chase. He used to get them all the time, before he ran into Optimus and heard the good news of 'your fellow Cybertronians deserve compassion and they don't really enjoy being hunted for sport, why don't you knock it off and join the Autobots instead.' Jazz thought it was kinda ironic that joining the Autobots just meant hunting his fellow Cybertronians for a cause or whatever instead, but Optimus had gone all pinched-looking when Jazz mentioned it to him, so Jazz had dropped it.

It wasn't that he didn't _like_ compassion. It was good! Jazz liked mechs and he liked being nice to them, and also living with the Autobots was the longest he'd ever lived with any group of mechs without anyone trying to murder him. But sometimes you just wanted to _pounce_ , you know?

Barricade had to slow down to take a corner. Jazz gunned his engine and then half-transformed, using his hand to push off the wall and curl himself tightly around the corner. He was close enough that he could almost reach out and grab Barricade's bumper, but there was lots of corridor yet and no reason to end the chase early.

"Stop playing around," said Prowl. "I want him dead."

Ooooh, Prowl sounded _very_ intense. What was all that about? No time to ask, and anyway Prowl didn't like talking about feelings. Jazz pinged him acknowledgment and leapt out of alt, landing on Barricade's roof. His knife plunged down through Barricade's hood and Barricade _wailed_ as a punctured coolant tank flooded his engine.

\---

"On my way back," said Jazz, dusting off his hands. "I'm going silent until I'm back in our territory, okay?"

"Yes," said Prowl. "Hurry back."

"Always," said Jazz, making a goofy happy face that he hoped Prowl could hear in his voice. Then he cut comms and not-entirely-gently kicked the mech lying at his feet.

Barricade woke up quick, but he kept his optics dim. Clever trick, almost good enough to fool Jazz except he could hear the wet noise of Barricade's engine trying to rev before he cut it off.

"Hi," said Jazz, as he trailed his knife from the hole in Barricade's hood to tip up his chin. "You wanna tell me why Prowl's got you marked for kill on sight?"

Barricade's optics flashed bright, and he grinned. There was energon stained on his teeth, but he abruptly didn't seem bothered at all. "Prowl," he said in a deep purr. "Hmm, I can make some guesses."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: The Medic


	9. The Medic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains off-screen minor character death, breach of privacy/trust, explicit sex, and relationship drama.

Prowl was waiting for Jazz in the base proper when Red Alert finally declared Jazz clean and let him in from the holding tank. He was clean of bugs and trackers, anyway—Prowl still wrinkled his nose a little when he saw the energon crusting on Jazz's armor.

"Wash racks, then debrief," he announced, putting one hand gingerly on Jazz's shoulder to hustle him down the corridor.

"Wash racks, then Ratchet, then debrief," said Jazz, offering an apologetic smile. "Don't worry, I'll be quick."

Prowl shot him another assessing glance. "You're injured?"

Jazz shrugged. "Barricade had a little fight in 'im."

Prowl's hand tightened on Jazz's shoulder. "Better not to mention him to anyone else," he murmured. "You know how Optimus is."

"Yeah," said Jazz. Yeah, Optimus wouldn't like hearing that his second in command had ordered someone killed when they could've been captured. And he'd like it even less if he knew that Jazz had interrogated the mech before slitting his throat. If you could call it an interrogation. Barricade'd been proud enough of what he'd done to half-forget that Jazz was holding a knife on him.

_Never even_ had _a mech before I took him. And he was drooling on his own fragging bumper by the time I was done. Begged me to rail his valve until he was sparked, and then he—_

They were at the doors of the wash racks. "Do you want company?" said Prowl. "We can fit into a cubicle if we squeeze..."

Jazz shivered. They'd done it before, after better missions when Jazz was flying high on the rush of getting away with a maneuver that should've gotten him killed. But there was something crawling uneasily in Jazz's spark, and he didn't think he could hold it in. He didn't want to talk about it either, not until he knew if Barricade's information could be trusted.

"Sorry, babe." He pressed a kiss to Prowl's cheek. "Can't keep Ratchet waiting."

"We could be quick," said Prowl, but he didn't sound too confident. They _could_ be quick, but they usually weren't.

"I'll meet you at the debriefing," said Jazz, and patted Prowl's hip. "Hey, I love you."

Prowl pursed his lips. "Just _how_ bad is your injury? You're not dying, are you?"

Jazz laughed and pinged the wash rack doors to open. He didn't let the smile drop until the doors shut again and he knew he was alone.

\---

"You broke a claw tip," repeated Ratchet. They were sitting on the couch in the med bay's break room, because Jazz didn't like the lights and the noises in med bays much and Ratchet was an old softie even if he liked to pretend he was a hardaft. Ratchet took Jazz's hand in both of his, squinting at each finger in turn.

"Yeah, I know, terrible," said Jazz, wiggling the offending digit. "Anyway, can I ask you something about Prowl?"

"As long as it doesn't breach medical confidentiality," said Ratchet, producing a nail file from his subspace. "Shoot."

Jazz tried to think of a way that he could possibly ask what he needed to know without offending Ratchet's delicate medical sensibilities. Jazz wasn't real good with other mech's limits, but anything about Prowl's sex life was probably over the line. "Never mind," he decided. "Ow!"

Ratchet didn't apologize, even as the file rasped over Jazz's armor and sent shivers up Jazz's spine. But he did squeeze Jazz's hand a little. "You could've done this yourself," he grumbled. "I know you've got your own files."

"I don't like how it feels," whined Jazz. "I need a big strong medic to hold my hand and bully me through it." He leaned into Ratchet's side, partly for comfort and partly so he could use his proximity scanner to update his clone of Ratchet's ID credentials. 

"Sparkling," said Ratchet, but he was smiling. Always did like it when Jazz came to him instead of holing up and trying to solder his own wounds. "Fine, I'll have you good as new in a minute."

"Thanks, Ratch." Jazz rested his head on Ratchet's shoulder. "Hey, do you know anything about the Enforcer Construction Unit, back in Praxus?"

Ratchet's smile froze a little, and Jazz could feel his cables tense and draw his armor fractionally tighter. "Not really," he said, casually. "That's definitely a question for Prowl. Or you could ask Smokescreen, he was batched out of the ECU."

"Huh," said Jazz, and then turned his attention back to his claw. "Can you get it as sharp as the others? I want it to match."

"Your wish is my command," said Ratchet, huffing a little. He took his time, though, carefully comparing the damaged claw to the others before blowing the filings off. "There," he announced. "Now sit tight, I gotta get the black paint. Don't steal anything while I'm gone."

"Yeah, yeah, I promise," said Jazz. He waited until the door had shut behind Ratchet, and then uncrossed his fingers from behind his back.

It wasn't _really_ stealing. Information wanted to be free, and anyway Ratch made it so easy. There was always a stray datapad lying around in the break room, and with Ratchet's ID you could get into any medical records you needed. Jazz had about two minutes before Ratchet came back, assuming the paint was where he'd left it (and it probably wasn’t). He spent the time memorizing Prowl's intake exam record, since a download would generate more flags than a simple access would. By the time Ratchet was back with the paint, the datapad was back in its place (acting as a coaster for a half-drunk energon cube), and Jazz was halfway into a cabinet full of stimulants.

"Get out of there, you menace," snapped Ratchet, dragging Jazz out and tossing him onto the couch. "Empty your subspace."

"Aw, that'll take forever," said Jazz. "I was just looking! You've got the good stuff up here, Prowl keeps denying my requisition forms."

"Because you want to use them to run thirty-hour missions," said Ratchet. "Empty your fragging subspace."

In the end Jazz lost three out of the four packets of stimulants he'd snagged, plus a bottle of energon additives he'd made himself and were probably definitely not poisonous, whatever Ratchet thought. Net neutral, then. His claw tip got painted and sealed, and then he was turned out into the corridor to 'be obnoxious somewhere else.' He blew a kiss to Ratchet as he went.

What had he wanted from Prowl's medical records? 'Seems totally fine and normal, definitely not fragged by a bus-full of guards,' maybe. Or even 'recovering from long-term confinement in some kind of frag factory.' It would've been nice to have confirmation one way or another.

But Ratchet was too good a doctor to clutter his files with rampant speculation, and if Prowl had confided in him it wasn't recorded. Ratchet had clinically noted Prowl's slightly relaxed valve and port rims, as well as some scarring on his spark. Prowl had requested the installation of a contraceptive cap, and assistance draining the excess from his overflow pouches so his newly-repaired chest armor could sit more comfortably.

No answers there, but a convoy-load of suggestions.

Prowl pinged him, not urgent yet but a little impatient. Jazz pinged back 'on my way,' and steeled himself for a conversation.

\---

"Hey, babe," said Jazz, as the door to the debriefing room opened. "Can I talk to you about—"

Prowl was sitting on the table, fragging his valve with his vibrator. "Hnn?"

Jazz stepped inside smartly, closing the door behind him. "Just couldn't wait, huh?"

"You were gone all day," said Prowl, matter of fact. His hips rolled as he drew the vibrator out and set it to one side. He spread his thighs and beckoned Jazz in. "Frag me and then we can debrief."

_Heard he got addicted to interfacing at the Frag Unit_ , said Barricade's voice in Jazz's memory banks. _Getting it from the guards, the technicians, anyone he could find. Wanted transfluid so bad they had to pump it into him with a hose, can you believe it?_

"Debrief first?" suggested Jazz, wavering a half-step away.

"No, I can't get the tac unit to focus." Prowl dipped a finger into his valve, then pulled back to toy with his soft rubber rim. "Hurry up, Jazz, I need you."

Jazz was so used to obeying that tone that he was already on his knees and dragging Prowl to the edge of the table before he remembered why he was hesitating. Well, fine. He'd get Prowl off, and then he'd be able to focus. Simple.

He'd eaten Prowl's valve hundreds of times, and he never got bored of it. A few nips to Prowl's thighs just to warm him up and make him even hungrier for it, and then Jazz licked a stripe over the rubber. Prowl moaned and his hips jerked as he tried to catch Jazz's tongue in his hole.

"Shh," mumbled Jazz into Prowl's valve. "I'll take care of you." He licked into Prowl's valve, doing his best to trip every sensor he could find on the outer and inner rims. Prowl was leaking lubricant, and his whines sounded oddly muffled—Jazz looked up to find Prowl sucking on two of his own fingers, his optics hazy with pleasure. 

Primus, Prowl loved this. It had to be okay, didn't it, if Prowl loved it so much? Jazz took one of Prowl's outer rim sensors and pinched it lightly between his teeth, flicking it with his tongue until Prowl was nearly crackling with charge and lubricant was spilling freely down Jazz's chin. His thighs clenched around Jazz's helm, until all Jazz could hear or see or taste or feel was _Prowl_. All of his concerns and speculations melted away when he pressed his tongue into Prowl's valve again and felt the warm throbbing of his spark from the inside.

Prowl pulled his fingers out of his mouth, his armor glistening with oral solvent. "Spike, please, I want your spike," he moaned. "I'm so empty, please."

_Begged me to rail his valve..._

Jazz barely suppressed a flinch as he drew back. "You don't like it in your valve, hon."

"I do!" Prowl spread his thighs a little wider, displaying his wet and open valve. "You can have my valve if you want it, I like it anywhere, everywhere, _please_ —"

Jazz felt a little sick. He knew none of it showed on his face, but he must've hesitated a micron too long because suddenly Prowl was pulling away from him, his legs closing as he sat up.

"What's wrong?" Prowl demanded.

"Nothin'," said Jazz, and then took a dive into the deep end before he could think better of it. "Just something Barricade said, bothering me."

Prowl's door wings jerked up, and his face froze into a cold mask. "Barricade," he repeated, all desperation and openness gone. "You weren't supposed to _talk_ to him, you were supposed to kill him."

"I did!" said Jazz, feeling defensive. "But he, y'know, he said some stuff first."

"He was lying," said Prowl, flatly.

"You don't even know what he said." Jazz put a hand on Prowl's leg, but Prowl jerked away. "He said he worked with you before the war. Before you got assigned to the Enforcer Construction Unit."

Prowl was shaking. Fear? Rage? Prowl could be hard to read, and anyway maybe it was both. "Who are you going to believe?" he snapped. "The second in command of the Autobots, or a Decepticon grunt?"

"I'd believe _you_ , Prowl, if you'd talk to me about it," said Jazz. "There—there ain't any shame in it. I just wanna know if I'm helping or hurting you. I saw the records of your intake exam, and Ratchet said—"

"You talked to _Ratchet_?" Prowl's hand clenched on the edge of the table, biting into the metal. 

"No, I just meant in his notes!" Jazz hadn't felt so dumb and inarticulate since he'd been forged. "Prowler, baby, just listen to me—"

"I told you to kill Barricade," said Prowl, low and dangerous, "because I didn't want him talking to _anyone_. I'm not interested in having this conversation. I want to get fragged. Can you do that for me or not?"

Jazz was still on his knees. He swallowed against a sudden taste of stale energon as he shook his head.

"Fine, then." Prowl snatched up his vibrator and snapped his panel closed before shoving himself off the desk. "Then I'll find someone who will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: The Analyst


	10. The Hunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a character propositioning people in a workplace setting, explicit sex, and more relationship drama (including infidelity in the context of a poorly defined relationship).

Conveniently, Ratchet was sitting on the couch in the med bay breakroom when Prowl came stalking in to find him. Prowl plucked the energon cube Ratchet was holding out of his hand, took a fortifying gulp, and then sat down in Ratchet's lap. It wasn't a very big lap. Prowl's bumper nearly clocked Ratchet in the chin.

"What are you _doing_?" yelped Ratchet.

"Seducing you," said Prowl. He wiggled his aft experimentally. Ratchet looked stricken, which was not at all the intended outcome.

Prowl wasn't exactly sure how this was supposed to go. He'd never had to seduce anyone at the Enforcer Construction Unit—simply being available and aroused was invitation enough. When he'd joined the Autobots, he'd immediately identified Jazz as the most attractive option—nice smile, clever hands, good at keeping secrets—and hadn't tried interfacing with anyone else since.

Thinking of Jazz still sent hot bolts of unreasoning anger up Prowl's spine. He'd disobeyed Prowl's commands, betrayed his trust, and worst of all, got Prowl a bare inch away from satisfaction before _stopping_. Prowl didn't have time for his chatter about Barricade and whether interfacing helped or hurt. It helped, of course it helped, he _needed_ it.

The tac unit, half-deranged by a day without an overload, suggested just opening his panel and letting Ratchet take it from there. Prowl gave it a shot.

Ratchet slapped a hand over his optics.

"Come on," said Prowl, irritated. This wasn't supposed to be so _difficult_. "My valve's already empty, you can fill it for me."

"What do you mean, already empty—” Ratchet peeked through his fingers, and Prowl obligingly canted his hips up to display his wet empty valve and his plugged port.

Abruptly he found himself lifted and spun by a medic's easy strength, sat down on the couch as Ratchet knelt in front of him. His legs were hooked over Ratchet's shoulders. The tac unit purred happily as the probability of getting fragged ticked up.

"I'm going to examine you, okay?" said Ratchet. Prowl nodded, feeling dazed.

Ratchet's fingers spread the rubber around his valve entrance, then gently drew out the vibrator in his port and tested his rim there as well. "How often do you wear interfacing aids like this?" Ratchet asked.

"Ninety-three percent of the day, on average," said Prowl. He tried to adopt a sultry voice, but it came out sounding matter of fact, as usual. Well, maybe Ratchet was aroused by factual statements.

" _Every_ day?" Ratchet huffed. "No wonder your valve and port rims are distended. You need to be doing cable tensing exercises if you're going to keep a plug in long-term. Have you done cables before?"

The probability ticked down, and Prowl frowned. "You're not going to frag me, are you?"

"No, of course not." Rachet drew back a little, his hands leaving Prowl's array. "It's unethical for a medic to interface with a patient."

Prowl's frown deepened into a scowl. "That wasn't a problem in Praxus." The tac unit was used to thinking of medics and technicians as potential interfacing partners. It was why it had ranked Ratchet so highly on the list of alternatives it had pinged Prowl with as soon as he'd stormed out of the debriefing room.

"I hate to speak ill of your home," said Ratchet, in a tone that suggested he didn't hate it at all, "but I think they did a lot of things there I wouldn't approve of. Jazz was asking questions about the ECU." 

"I know." Prowl disentangled his legs from Ratchet's shoulders and drew his knees up to his chest. His tac unit protested, demanding that he drag Ratchet in and _show_ him how he deserved to be serviced. But no. Prowl could control himself. He took in a shaky vent, refocused. "He said he'd seen my intake exam record."

"What? I wouldn't let him—” Ratchet's optics lit on a discarded datapad. "That _sneak_. We're gonna have to do the whole medical confidentiality talk again. With fragging pictures and small words and even more threats this time."

Prowl picked up his aft plug, but Ratchet snatched it back before Prowl could replace it.

"At least wash it first," he said. "Do you have one for your valve? Fork it over." He got up and busied himself at the little sink by the door.

Once Ratchet's back was turned, Prowl allowed his door wings to droop and his helm to fall forward into his hands. He felt foggy with desire, his circuits tingling with static. It was an effort to close his panel. He almost missed the ECU—not the horrible, stifling boredom, but it had been so _easy_ to find an acceptable spike when he needed it.

"How often do you overload a day?" asked Ratchet, still turned away. 

"An average of seven times," said Prowl. "But there's a large standard deviation. Sometimes J—Sometimes my preferred partner is busy."

Ratchet snorted. "You can say Jazz, I know it's him."

Prowl rubbed his chevron. Yes, of course Ratchet had deduced that. Why else would Jazz be prying into Prowl's past life?

"How's the tac unit run with all the extra stimulation?" continued Ratchet.

"Fine," said Prowl.

Ratchet hummed, and the solvent in the sink splashed. Surely it didn't take that long to wash a couple plugs.

"It can get a little fixated," admitted Prowl. "It doesn't function as well when I'm..." He searched for a word more scientific than 'horny.' "When my needs aren't met."

"Hence the plugs," said Ratchet, finally turning back. He didn't look especially happy. "Look, Prowl, I'm not gonna ask you about what happened back in Praxus, and I'm not gonna pry into whatever lovers' spat you're having with Jazz."

"We're not _lovers_ ," said Prowl, aghast. Lovers lived in golden age novels and insipid holodramas. He had a deep respect for Jazz's skills in spec ops, his charming sense of humor, and his exceedingly well-proportioned spike, that was all.

"Whatever," said Ratchet. "The point is, there's ways to deal with a scrambled tac unit priority tree that doesn't involve giving it an overload every couple of hours. You're not the first person to have a tac unit more interested in chasing pleasure than doing strategic calculations—it's listed as a vulnerability in the fragging installation manual. It'd take some work, but we can give you a whole toolbox to throw at it. Let you frag when you want, not when the computer up top starts demanding it."

"Hmph." Prowl reached out and took his plugs back. "I'll consider it."

And he would. _After_ he'd gotten fragged.

\---

Prowl was a little unsure of the tac unit's next suggestion, but his valve was clutching fitfully around its reinstated plug, and he wasn't any more confident that Jazz would spike him than he'd been twenty minutes ago. He set his jaw and proceeded to Optimus' office.

This would require tact. Optimus was an almost aggressively good mech, who would doubtless be horrified at the thought of taking advantage of a subordinate. Prowl suspected that the only reason the tac unit rated him so high was because it thought the matrix transformation that had made a Prime of Orion Pax might have blinged out his spike as well.

Prowl _was_ curious. 

"Come in!" called Optimus, when Prowl pinged his door—just a courtesy, Optimus always left it open when he was there. One of the many aspects of his management style that gave Red Alert conniptions.

Prowl triggered it to close after him. "Optimus," he said, lingering just inside, "do you remember when you said that a good leader looks after the needs of his mechs?"

Optimus' optics glazed a little. "Not... really. But it does sound like me. Oh!" He set down the datapad he'd been scribbling on. "Is something wrong? Please, sit down."

Prowl did sit—but not in the guest chair Optimus had gestured to. He sat sideways on the desk instead, cocking his hip and his wings in angles carefully calculated to appear the most appealing.

Optimus' optics widened, and he leaned very slightly back.

Prowl leaned forward to compensate, his bumper thrusting into Optimus' personal space. "I have," he purred, "a need."

Silence. Prowl attempted to make himself clear without descending into crudity. "I _need_ ," he said a little more forcefully, "you."

More silence. Optimus was beginning to look panicked.

"I need to get fragged so my processor starts working again and I can get on with my duties," said Prowl, out of patience.

Optimus' optics flicked down toward Prowl's panel and then guiltily jumped up to stare fixedly at a point in the middle distance. "I'll get Jazz," he said, beginning to get up.

"No!" snapped Prowl. "It's a simple productivity correction. There's no reason to involve _Jazz_."

Optimus frowned. "But aren't you two—”

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Prowl. His... fondness for Jazz was _meant_ to be a secret. It was one thing for Ratchet to have figured it out, but if Optimus knew there _must_ be an information leak. Was Jazz bragging about having his way with the Autobots' second? Add another item to his list of transgressions, then.

"I just thought," rambled Optimus, "I mean, the way you look at each other..."

Prowl rose into a kneeling position on the desk, cupping his array with one hand and a headlight with the other. "I came to _you_ , Optimus. I want _your_ spike."

Optimus gaped at him. Then, slowly, understanding dawned.

Prowl hopefully spread his thighs a little wider.

"Red Alert," said Optimus, into his comm, "I think Prowl's been hacked."

\---

"Okay," said Bumblebee. "Ratchet's confirmed that there's no hack, and everything else is medically confidential. You'll have to talk to him about the rest of your scan results. He said to tell you that 'have to' is an order, he's already made you an appointment. Now, you want out of those things?"

Prowl nodded, and Bumblebee unlocked his stasis cuffs. Bumblebee was watching him a little warily, but Prowl didn't leap into action or flee or do anything in particular except rub his wrists and stare blankly at the one-way glass panel in the interrogation room.

His processor was increasingly filled with static, and it was difficult to redirect his tac unit to anything but the needy throbbing of his array. He had to constantly resist the urge to turn on the vibration of his plugs—it would only make the problem worse. It had taken _hours_ for Ratchet to complete all the necessary scans, meticulous even if he clearly thought it was a waste of time. You couldn't be too careful with a potential processor hack, especially when the second in command was involved.

Prowl wasn't so naive as to think he would be able to avoid a 'talk' with Ratchet about the scans, even if he'd proven to be unhacked. He'd also proven to be a shameless floozy, a liability, and a distraction. He was extremely frustrated with his lack of self-control.

Perhaps Optimus would demote him, once he'd recovered from Prowl's failed seduction. It would be no more than what Prowl deserved.

If Jazz had just done his job, they could've avoided this entire incident. If he'd killed Barricade as efficiently and immediately as Prowl had asked him to, if he hadn't pried into Prowl's files, if he hadn't _pitied_ Prowl—

"So," said Bumblebee. "Any insight into how you ended up on Optimus' desk?"

Prowl was suddenly aware that he'd been staring into space for the last five minutes. "I thought we were done," he said.

Bumblebee shrugged. "Can't help being curious. There's a betting pool going on whether it was a dare or if you've been harboring a secret crush and finally snapped. I've got my money on the dare."

Bumblebee's tone was casual, but... Prowl had signed off on his assignment to spec ops years ago. You didn't survive working for Jazz unless you were able to juggle about six ulterior motives at once.

Jazz. Yes, Bumblebee did work for Jazz, didn't he? Prowl prodded the tac unit into giving him the likelihood that Jazz had really decided to let Bumblebee handle this unsupervised.

"I'm not especially interested in Optimus," he said, staring pointedly at the one-way glass. "I _want_ someone to spike me, and Jazz is shirking his responsibilities."

Bumblebee's expression didn't flicker. "Jazz?"

"We've been... attached," said Prowl. "I'm surprised you didn't know. Everyone _else_ seems to."

"Yeah, uh." Bumblebee didn't even glance at the glass. "Yeah, I try not to pry into my boss' personal life."

Prowl almost laughed. "You know, you were my second choice when I joined the Autobots. If Jazz hadn't been interested..." He dragged his hand down his bumper in a way that he hoped was enticing. "Well, I'd be willing to make up for lost time."

Bumblebee looked gratifyingly stunned for a moment. "Me? I mean, but, you and Jazz—Aren't you exclusive?"

"We've never discussed it," said Prowl. He cocked his helm at the glass. "I don’t _belong_ to him. And he's had plenty of opportunities to claim my valve if he wanted it."

Bumblebee performed a full-body shake, his plating clattering. "Yeah, okay, I see what's happening here. I'm not really interested in being used in a power play. You and Jazz can work out whatever's going on without any help from me."

Prowl turned away from the glass, hooked one knee over the arm of his chair, and opened his panel. Bumblebee's optics immediately riveted to the sheen of lubricant on his valve plug, and Prowl smiled as he slowly dragged it out.

"Jazz and I share some core values." Prowl rested the tip of the plug on his bottom lip for a moment. "Adaptability. Efficiency. Getting the job done. Didn't Jazz _train_ you?"

"Yeah," said Bumblebee, "but—”

He cut off with a buzz of static as Prowl slipped the plug into his mouth. Prowl moaned, tasting his own lubricant, curling his tongue around it like he would a spike. There was a ringing noise of metal against metal as Bumblebee's spike tried to extend under his panel.

It only took a little more coaxing before Bumblebee had Prowl prone on the table, his spike finally ( _finally_ ) in Prowl's valve. It was shorter and thinner than Jazz's spike, but that just let Prowl clench tighter around it, the extra pressure ratcheting him closer and closer to overload. Bumblebee's rhythm wasn't as good as Jazz's either—but not everything had to be in comparison to Jazz, did it?

"Faster," he said, his legs wrapping around Bumblebee's hips to drag him in closer. "Yes, yes, like that."

"Oh frag," gasped Bumblebee. "You're so hot, this is so hot, I'm gonna be _murdered_ , fragging _Primus_."

Prowl let his helm loll back and made optic contact with Jazz's most likely location. "I'm sure you'll be fine," he said, loud enough to be heard by anyone who happened to be watching. "I'd be very unhappy if you weren't."

There wasn't a response. But then, Prowl hadn't expected one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: The Analyst (for real this time, haha, I had to rethink my outline)


	11. The Analyst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly relationship drama and relationship negotiation, but there's a bit of explicit sex at the beginning (including infidelity), and at the end (including cuck kink).

Jazz was alone in the observation room. That was the only reason he let himself slump forward, his helm defeatedly bonking against the glass.

In the interrogation room, Prowl was lying on the table, his fingers slowly flexing in and out of his own valve. His helm tipped back and Jazz took a step away as Prowl's optics sought out his. He reflexively double-checked that the glass was still mirrored on the other side, even though he _knew_ it was.

 _Jazz_ , Bumblebee commed, _what should I—_

 _Whatever you want_ , said Jazz. He didn't have any right to dictate what Prowl did or who he did it with, Prowl had made that very clear. _Just show him a good time._

Bumblebee was too good to look at the glass, but he took a few shuddering vents, just staring at Prowl. Then he surged up from his seat and replaced Prowl's fingers with his own, rising up on the tips of his feet to press his mouth to the underside of Prowl's bumper. 

Protocol said that you never left another mech unobserved in the interrogation room. Jazz knew all the reasons why—frag, he'd helped _Prowl_ draft the protocol. But he knew Prowl hadn't been hacked, the interrogation was over. And his spark felt odd and overwarm at the thought of watching another mech spike his—spike Prowl. No reason to hang around where he wasn't wanted.

He pinged Bumblebee the 'you're on your own' signal, and didn't bother to wait for an acknowledgment.

\---

Jazz did what he always did when he was upset, and went looking for people.

It was the easiest way to get out of a bad mood. Wipe away the scowl, put on a smile, charm and laugh until you forgot it was fake. Jazz had plenty of funny stories he could get lost in the telling of, and he never had trouble finding an appreciative audience.

But when he walked into the mess room, he had to suppress a flinch at the noise. Weird. Jazz loved noise. Blaster, Cliffjumper, and Beachcomber were having an argument about music. Jazz _loved_ arguing about music. Why'd he feel like he wanted to crawl out of his armor?

His optics hunted out Smokescreen, sitting alone at a table with a datapad. Jazz collected a cube and headed over to join him.

"Hey, Smokey," he said, sliding onto the bench opposite. "What's new in the betting books?"

"Who Mirage is going to date next," said Smokescreen, not looking up. "If you bet on that, you also get the opportunity to do a secondary bet on time to breakup. Hot Rod and Springer have a cube game this afternoon. Odds on Springer are three to one, but Hot Rod's offering free drinks to anyone who bets on him, he found a case of engex on the last scavenging mission. There's the end of the war, too, but that one's getting a little depressing."

"Same old, same old," said Jazz, not letting his relief show. Despite Bumblebee's bluff, they were keeping Prowl and Optimus' 'encounter' need-to-know only. It was good to hear it was staying that way. "What's the odds on Mirage and me?"

Smokescreen finally glanced up from his datapad and gave Jazz an assessing look. "I don't give out odds to the mechs involved. If you wanna run a con, get a friend to ask me so I can have some plausible deniability. Anyway, aren't you and Prowl..."

Jazz grinned, feeling the strain in his facial actuators as he forced it. "No idea what you're talking about."

"Right, right," said Smokescreen, with a crooked little smile that reminded Jazz of someone. He returned to his datapad, and the smile faded before Jazz could place it.

Jazz sat quietly for a moment, sipping on his energon. He'd made so many fragging missteps, trying to sort out this thing with Prowl. He was too used to trying to find out intel on his own, that was the problem. It'd felt natural to question Barricade and then confirm what he could with Prowl's medical records. He'd barely stopped to think how Prowl would feel about it. If someone was looking into _his_ deep, dark secrets, Jazz would laugh and wish them luck. Most of the mechs who knew anything about him were dead.

Should've talked to Prowl _first_ , instead of just assuming he'd prefer Jazz to find things out on his own. And if it had to be investigated for security reasons, well, maybe that should've been assigned to someone who wasn't helm over heels for the subject of inquiry.

That bridge was probably dynamited now, though. So...

"Hey," said Jazz, "can I ask you something about Praxus?"

Smokescreen shrugged. "You can ask, but I might not be able to answer. I never actually lived there. I was transferred to New Kalis right after I was constructed."

"But you worked with other Praxian Enforcers, right?" Smokey might've given himself a flashy repaint, but the frame type was hard to disguise.

"Yeah, there were half a dozen of us at the precinct." Smokescreen set his datapad down, his optics dimming a little as he thought back. "Every city-state was always trying to get more of us. Specially built to keep the peace, never question orders, and not understand the concepts of 'vacation' or 'bonuses.' New Kalis could only afford a few, though."

"Huh." Jazz ran a finger around the rim of his empty energon cube. "You ever hear about the Enforcer Construction Unit?"

Smokescreen's door wings dipped, flattening as close as they could against his back. "Jazz, what's this about?"

Jazz dug up his smile again, held up his hands and leaned back. No threat here, just good old Jazz. "Just making conversation!"

"It's never _just_ a conversation with you," said Smokescreen. "Praxus is gone, why're you digging into the rubble? Is this coming from up top? Is there going to be a investigation commission? Is this for a _treaty_?"

"Whoa, whoa, calm your processor and lower your voice, kiddo." Jazz flapped his hands like he was trying to fan Smokescreen's helm. "Come on, run the _actual_ odds on any of that."

Smokescreen audibly whirred for a moment, and then slumped back down. "Yeah, okay," he said. "You're probably running out on a limb on the off-chance of finding some leverage on someone. As usual."

"Spookily accurate," said Jazz, and booped Smokescreen's nose. "As usual. Anyway, what's got you all riled about the ECU?"

"It's not the best part of Praxian history," said Smokescreen. He glanced around, but no one was paying attention to them—the music argument had been joined by half a dozen more mechs, and grown loud enough to overpower any but the most dedicated of conversationalists. He leaned in anyway, his voice low enough that Jazz had to tune his audios up to hear it. "They were meant to be making artificial sparks like mine, based on the coding from elite enforcers. But if you got asked to report for a spark scan, you were just as likely to end up sparked yourself. Nothing official, but it was an open secret among the enforcers. They wanted more of us by any means possible, and when the ECU staff heard that they basically converted the facility into a porn vid." 

Smokescreen straightened a little, and his voice went back to more or less normal. "That's what I heard, anyway. One of the mechs I worked with had been assigned there, a little while back."

Jazz let a little air whistle between his teeth. "Poor mech. Can't believe that could just... happen to someone."

Smokescreen see-sawed a hand. "Enforcers are pragmatic, that's how we're coded. Failsafe said it wasn't the worst assignment he'd ever had, just kinda boring. He had a couple sparks and then he was back on patrol a month later."

"Gotcha." Jazz finally stopped playing around and dispersed his cube. "He ever see those sparks?"

"I never asked," said Smokescreen. "Praxians don't play happy families, especially not enforcers. We have a unit, right? Even in New Kalis I had more than enough mentors. Even here in the tactical division, I've got Prowl. Who cares about who sparked who?"

Jazz nodded, ignoring the pang at the mention of Prowl. He'd get over it, he had to get over it. "But you were constructed?" he asked Smokescreen, half to distract himself.

"Had to be." Smokescreen looked down at a mark on his wrist cuff that, yeah, could've been a casting seam. "There were a bunch of us with nearly identical coding, all framed right about the same time. We went through basic training together. I got rated tactician-class, Hightower went into forensics, Lugnut got sent to be a beat cop in Tarn... Frag, I haven't thought about them in a long time." He frowned. "It was weird, though, we all had the same spark frequency, but we didn't look _anything_ alike."

"Yeah, weird," said Jazz, not really thinking about it. He stood up and fished in his subspace. "Thanks, Smokey. Hey, put ten creds on Mirage and Cliffjumper, okay? And five on them getting conjunxed."

"Okay, but odds are against you." Smokescreen made the credit-stick disappear. "They hate each other."

"I just got a feeling," said Jazz, and left Smokescreen whirring again.

\---

Jazz checked Prowl's hab without much hope, expecting to already be locked out. But his passcode worked fine. Prowl hadn't got around to changing it yet, then. Too busy with Bee.

Jazz let himself in. He'd gather up his stuff, and then he'd delete his own passcode from the system. Clean break.

But Prowl's hab was small and the berth was right in the door's sightline, which meant Jazz didn't have even a hauler's chance of hiding before he spotted Prowl, and Prowl spotted him.

"Sorry," said Jazz. "Just came to get my stuff. I'll go, I don't want to—”

"I don't mind," mumbled Prowl, cutting off Jazz's escape. He might _feel_ like running, but he didn't want to make Prowl feel like he needed to be run from.

It'd be better for everyone if they ended on good terms. Most of Jazz's breakups had ended with somebody dying, but you know, there was a first time for everything. Anyway, Optimus would be upset.

Jazz closed the door and slowly padded around the room, scooping up the weapons and dataslugs he'd hidden around the place. Prowl was lying under a thick tarp, only his chevron and his optics peeking out.

"You doin' okay?" asked Jazz, over his shoulder as he pried a piece of wall up so he could get to the virus packs stashed behind it. "You want me to call Ratchet?"

"No," said Prowl. "I'm fine. What are you doing?"

"Did you have a brown out?" asked Jazz. It happened sometimes, when Prowl overloaded hard after being all spun up about something. Prowl did it on purpose occasionally, when he needed to recharge and he couldn't get his processor to shut down. More often it happened by accident, when Jazz and Prowl were celebrating after a hard-fought victory where Prowl had pushed his tac unit a little or a lot too far.

"Yes," said Prowl. Now that Jazz was listening, he could hear that little edge of static that would tinge Prowl's voice until his processor finished rebooting. Normally Jazz felt guiltily pleased to have Prowl like this, all soft and sleepy and cuddly. Now...

"What did Bee think of that?" asked Jazz, feeling his spark twist a little in his chest.

"Panicked," grumbled Prowl. "Got me back here. He doesn't cuddle as well as you do. He left after he found a vibroblade under your pillow."

 _Nice_. Jazz wasn't going to actually murder Bumblebee or anything, but it wouldn't do to have the mech feeling too comfortable. Maybe he'd break into Bee's hab, leave the vibroblade under _his_ pillow. Just a little reminder of what he could do, if Bee didn't treat Prowl right. Jazz had _told_ him to show Prowl a good time, and he better do it.

His spark was still doing gymnastics in his chest. Jazz stopped with his head stuck under Prowl's desk, and rubbed at his core plating. It was a weird sensation, mostly bad but a little bit good too? Like his spark didn't know what to think about Bee pushing Prowl down onto the table and rubbing his spike between his—

"What are you _doing_ , Jazz?"

Jazz plucked a knife from where it was taped to the underside of Prowl's desk, then straightened up. "Packing up. Figured I'd spend the night in the vents, just until I find a better place to bunk. Bet Red Alert'd be happy to give me my own room with my own set of security cameras."

"Oh," said Prowl, sounding small. Nothing at all like his frustration or his seduction or anything else Jazz had heard him say today. "You're breaking up with me."

"I'm not—” began Jazz, but _frag_ , he was, wasn't he? He'd just been thinking about it. First real relationship he'd ever had that wasn't just fragging twice a day for fun, and he was leaving because it turned out this one was just fragging twice a day for fun too. "I was kinda getting the impression that we weren't ever together in the first place."

"Oh," said Prowl, again.

"Yeah, _oh._ " Jazz scrubbed a hand over his face, getting fragging oil smears on his visor. Must be from prying at the wall. He ignored them and shoved the knife into his subspace with the rest. "My fault for catching feelings. I know you were just lookin' for a release valve or whatever. I'll get over it, don't worry. We're cool."

"Jazz." Prowl sounded _stricken_. "I don't want—I don't— _Cool_?"

"I mean," said Jazz, enunciating carefully in a parody of Ultra Magnus' most clipped accents, "there is no blame or negative feelings attached to your actions today. I trust we can maintain a fruitful professional relationship." His shoulders slumped, and he dropped the act. "Tomorrow, though. I'm not feeling great, kinda wanna go be in a dark place and lick my wounds, okay?"

"Yes," said Prowl, and then shook his head. "I mean, no? I mean—My tac unit's still offline and I don't have enough _processor_ for this. Would you come here?"

Jazz eyed the door, but... Well. He didn't really want to leave, did he? If he did, he wouldn't have bothered coming back. There wasn't anything here he couldn't requisition or make or loot, if he needed it. Except Prowl.

Never could con himself, as hard as he tried.

He walked up to the edge of the berth. The tarp shifted, Prowl grunted, and finally an arm emerged. He used it to seize Jazz's wrist and tug him closer.

Jazz allowed himself to be hauled down onto the berth and engulfed by the tarp. It was a warm little cavern of comfort and Prowl, and he ached with how much he wanted it. Prowl seemed to want it too—he was clutching tight at Jazz's frame, his fingers digging into Jazz's seams and his leg thrown over Jazz's hip to keep him in place.

"I don't like feeling things," said Prowl, into Jazz's chest. "I'm not any good at it. I was _so_ horny, and then I was so _angry_ , and the only thing I could think was that I needed to stop having at least one of those emotions so I could sit down and think logically like I'm supposed to."

"Horny isn't an emotion, babe," said Jazz. "And it's so weird to hear you say the word 'horny.' It doesn't suit you at all."

"No," said Prowl, a little mournfully. "It's not professional."

They lapsed into silence for a little while. Just them, on their berth, cuddling. It was easy to pretend that nothing was wrong.

"I'm sorr—” began Jazz, just as Prowl said "I'm sorry."

They stared at each other. Each of them opened their mouths a couple times and then shut it. Frag, they should sell tickets to this comedy routine.

" _I'm_ sorry," said Prowl, at last. "I didn't want you to know about the ECU. You always look at me like I'm so impressive and attractive, and I didn't want to be—to be pitied."

"Aw, sweetspark," said Jazz. "I'm sorry I pried. I just, you know. I like knowing stuff."

Prowl nodded like this was understandable, and not the most pitiful excuse anyone had ever come up with. Jazz felt simultaneously like curling up into a ball to die and fleeing out through the non-existent window.

"You can feel safe telling me things," said Jazz, carefully picking his way toward the path he could see opening. "I ain't gonna pity you. I might get mad at Praxus, but it's all blown up already so that don't matter. But you can feel safe not telling me things too. Whatever you want."

"No, you were right to ask," said Prowl. "Need to know dictates—”

"You ain't an op, Prowler," said Jazz. "All I need to know is that I love you."

Prowl's engine hiccupped and backfired. It wasn't the first time Jazz had said he loved Prowl, that was for sure. But he thought back, and—yeah, that might be the first time he'd said it like this, all close and wrapped up in each other, not a quick sign off with a kiss on the cheek or gasped out in the middle of interfacing. Something more serious and lingering.

"I love you too," said Prowl, and that _was_ the first time he'd said it. Jazz's vent caught, like he was at the top of a mountain and his brakes had just been cut.

"But," said Prowl, of fragging course there was a but, "I don't know if I can—I need, I just need a lot of stimulation, and if you don't want to interface with me anymore that's fine, but I don't know if—”

"Hey, hey," Jazz stroked Prowl's cheek. "We can keep interfacing, I love interfacing with you."

"But earlier," said Prowl, "you—”

"I'm gonna trust you," said Jazz, deliberately, "to tell me if I'm making you feel good the way you wanna feel good. Okay? If you can do that for me, that's all I need. Don't worry about earlier."

"Are we still breaking up?" asked Prowl.

"Only if you want to," said Jazz. "I don't. Frag, I really, really don't."

Prowl squeezed Jazz tight, and that felt _good_ , it felt like they'd got somewhere—except then there was the tell-tale hum of Prowl's tac unit coming back on, and all of his joints locked in place.

"Hon?" Jazz squirmed a bit, trying to find a comfortable way to lie in Prowl's abrupt death-grip. "What's wrong?"

"The tac unit," said Prowl, his voice flat and devoid of static, "is outputting a priority list of every way that I'm, to use a technical term, screwed."

"Oh, good." Jazz sighed. This was another occasional problem that he'd gotten used to knocking his way through. "Let's hear 'em."

"I tried to seduce Optimus Prime and now he knows that I'm a promiscuous hedonist and he's going to," there was a pause, and Prowl's optics flickered as he obviously sorted through a list of possibilities. "...Demote me."

"Nope," said Jazz. "Optimus was worried to the pit about you, but I told him it was a freak coding error in the tac unit and Ratchet backed me up. All he knows is that you needed a recalibration, and you might not be at work for a bit while you get your processor sorted out. He's too good a guy to hold anything against you."

Prowl didn't even look relieved. Must be a long list. "I tried to seduce Optimus Prime," he began.

"Babe, we just did that one."

"I tried to seduce Optimus Prime," said Prowl, stubbornly, "and I should resign from my position immediately because I'm unfit for authority."

Jazz rubbed at his visor, streaking it even worse than before. "Just run the odds on us winning the war with and without you, all right?"

There was a pause. "Fine," said Prowl. "I'll table that for now. I vaguely suggested to Bumblebee that I would be available for future encounters, and now I will need to inform him that this is not the case."

Trust Prowl to rank 'awkward conversation' just under 'lose my post as second-in-command.' "You know," said Jazz, "I've never been real big on monogamy, except as a security measure. I trust Bumblebee okay. I don't know how many other people I trust like that—maybe Mirage, Hound—”

"Your spec ops team, basically," said Prowl.

"Yeah, fair," said Jazz. "Maybe Red Alert, I like Red Alert. You know what I'm saying? If it's people I trust, it's okay. 'Long as you let me know."

"If I tried to seduce Red Alert, he'd probably shoot me _before_ checking to see if I'd really been hacked," said Prowl. "But yes, I understand. We should talk more about this, but—this is more than I could have _ever_ expected, Jazz."

"You're more than I could have ever expected," said Jazz, and grinned. Didn't even force it.

Prowl looked at him for a moment. Jazz thought for a second that he was going to produce another career-ending concern from his list, but then Prowl shook his head.

"Your visor's dirty," said Prowl, critically. He produced a cloth before Jazz even had the chance to be offended, and started cleaning it. Jazz's sensors purred at the contact, and he leaned in, turning to give Prowl better access.

"Last problem," said Prowl, softly. "I'm... horny."

"Still weird," said Jazz. He slipped a hand down to where Prowl was shifting against his thigh. "You want valve, aft, maybe your s—Prowler, you're all wet."

"Uhuh," mumbled Prowl, the cloth clutched tight in his hand.

"No, I mean," Jazz pulled Prowl's aft plug a little way out. "Did you, uh. Did you use the washracks after Bee fragged you?"

"Nnnno." With what seemed a great effort of will, Prowl managed to pull himself away from Jazz. "I can—”

Jazz tugged him back into his arms. "No, no," he said, his frame almost vibrating with a level of arousal he didn't quite understand and _definitely_ didn't want to interrogate. His spark seemed to have resolved all of those complicated feelings about seeing Prowl fragged by another mech, and now... "That, uh, that works for me. Can I eat you out again? Both holes? And you can tell me what Bee was like? Promise I'll frag you after."

"Oh!" Prowl bit his lip, and Jazz just had to kiss him before he burrowed deeper under the tarp, spreading Prowl's thighs. "Yes! Oh, Jazz..."

Music to Jazz's audials. It was nice when you could solve a problem so easily, he thought. Sure, they might've swerved around the road a little, but it'd be smooth driving from here on out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: The Infiltrator


	12. The Infiltrator

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains references to past abuse and past sex work.
> 
> I also added an expected chapter count! It may be wrong! We'll see!

Prowl experienced a brief moment of panic the next morning, when his alarm went off and he onlined with Jazz nowhere to be seen. Then he realized there was a warm weight pressed against his back, and rolled over to find Jazz's visor already bright and a smile on his face. Prowl took a shaky vent and curled one arm around Jazz's side, digging his fingers into Jazz's armor seams as if it would help him confirm that Jazz was still there.

"Hey, boo," murmured Jazz. "You gonna take your shift today?"

"Fzzt," said Prowl. His processor always booted up slowly, encumbered as it was by the tac unit. _Usually_ he was able to do it in peace, since Jazz tended to recharge until the very last moment. He glared fuzzily at Jazz's chipper expression.

"I'll getcha ration, don't go any—” began Jazz, but Prowl tightened his grip before he could move. "...Or we can lie down a little longer, that's cool."

Prowl restarted his vocalizer, once, twice. "You stayed," he said at last.

"Yeah, of course I stayed," said Jazz. "We talked it all out, we're good now. We _are_ good, right? I mean, I don't wanna—”

"We're good," said Prowl. He rolled over even more, squirming until he could lie fully on top of Jazz and bury his face in the crook of Jazz's neck. "We're good if you're good. This just... This wasn't a likely outcome. I expected you to react badly to my—my past."

Prowl hadn't been able to do any calculations when he and Jazz had balanced precariously on the knife's edge of breaking up last night. But now that his tac unit was back online... Prowl tried to squeeze Jazz a little tighter against him.

"Prowler," wheezed Jazz, "hey, I'm rated for stealth, not crush resistance."

Prowl reluctantly loosened his arms. Jazz let out a performatively loud sigh, designed to make Prowl smile. 

He did.

"That's my Prowl," said Jazz, grinning back. "Never should'a worried about me, okay? I always beat the odds."

Prowl nodded. But... they had been steep odds. He'd expected Jazz to reject him out of pity (thirty-three percent, climbing to sixty-two percent after his initial reaction in the debriefing room), or out of disgust (twenty percent). Worse, he could have used the information to manipulate Prowl's official actions (twenty-one percent) or his personal affections (twenty-three percent, non-exclusive outcome). That Jazz _accepted_ him, that he would allow Prowl to tell him what he did and didn't want, that he would even maintain his _love_ for Prowl—

"Ohh, that looks like a bad feeling." Jazz reached up and smoothed away a line under Prowl's optic. "Are you having some of that trauma stuff? Ratchet explained trauma to me once."

"I'm not having _trauma_ ," said Prowl, shocked out of his thoughts. "The ECU wasn't traumatizing. It was dull."

Jazz opened his mouth, then closed it and wrinkled his nose. Prowl watched him for a moment, but Jazz stayed quiet—except for his foot tapping a quick beat on the berth. His overwhelming need for intel warring with the promise he'd made to Prowl.

It was oddly sweet, but Prowl didn't enjoy tormenting his—whatever Jazz was. Lover.

"I have seventeen minutes before the start of shift," said Prowl. "You can ask questions, and I'll decide if I want to answer them."

"Are you sure?" said Jazz, practically vibrating.

"You can ask five questions," decided Prowl, and subtly angled his panel over Jazz's thigh so the vibration would at least do some good.

"Why was it dull?" asked Jazz, without even a pause to calculate a strategy.

That was easy to answer. "I didn't have anything to do," said Prowl. "My movement was restricted, and I didn't have any cases to work on. The guards were desultory conversationalists." Once he started, the complaints spilled out of him. "All I did for _years_ was lie around, get fragged, incubate sparks, and get fragged again. _Dull_."

"Uhuh," said Jazz, stroking Prowl's doors with strangely careful hands. "But you're not traumatized."

"No," said Prowl, and shoved all his memories of that place into the back of his long-term storage.

"Sounds a lot worse than dull to me," said Jazz. "Couldn't leave, couldn't drive around... They just left you there?"

"It was a long assignment," said Prowl. He hesitated for a moment, and then decided the test was worth the risk. "I was suited to the work."

If Jazz asked why, he would refuse to answer. It Jazz wouldn't take that refusal, then—Prowl didn't want to think about what then, but the tac unit spooled the scenario inexorably forward. He triggered his aft plug to distract it, and let his optics dim a little as he took in the sensation.

"Pretty sure you weren't," said Jazz, which was the _ideal_ answer. "You're not good at idling. I just can't get over—I sucked spike for credits a couple times, you know?"

No, Prowl _hadn't_ known, but Jazz was still talking, blithely unconcerned with Prowl's reaction.

"—Had to stop after I bit that one mech, but before that it was okay. No one locked me in a facility to incubate anything, and I got tips—did you get tips?"

"No," said Prowl, still stuck on the concept of people paying Jazz to suck their spikes. Jazz had never sucked _his_ spike. Prowl was always so focused on his valve and his aft—he upped the vibration of his aft plug a little and ground against Jazz's thigh. His tac unit thought Jazz was probably (eighty-three percent) good at sucking spike, and definitely (ninety-seven percent) wouldn't bite him. It conjured up a simulation of Prowl on his back with his legs spread, moaning as Jazz took him in his throat and swallowed.

"You didn't get tips?" said Jazz, outraged.

"I was on salary," said Prowl. "Jazz, that's five questions, can we—”

"That's not five questions," said Jazz. "Wait, are you counting the tip one twice? _And_ 'you know' isn't a question, it's just—”

" _Jazz_ ," said Prowl, "I have ten minutes before shift and I _need_ you to suck my spike, please can we—”

Jazz startled into a laugh. "Absolutely, I'm on it. You're gonna tell me if it feels good, right?"

“It already feels good,” said Prowl, and Jazz laughed again as he flipped them.

\---

Prowl was practically humming when he reached his office, five minutes late for the start of his shift. 

Despite the unlikelihood of the outcome, everything was falling into place. Prowl wasn't sure if his calculations were off due to an unobserved factor, or—well, unlikely outcomes _did_ occur. Just rarely, because they were unlikely.

Either way, it was unnecessary to risk further exposure. Rejection or manipulation was still an overwhelming probability if other Autobots learned the truth. Jazz had readily promised to keep the information confidential. Barricade was dead. And he would _not_ be talking to Ratchet about it, no matter how often Ratchet tried to sneak medical appointments onto his calendar. Prowl had already had to delete three, and it hadn't even been a full day. 

He didn't need to talk to Ratchet. He didn't have 'trauma.' And his tac unit would be easily managed by additional casual interfacing partners. While he was thinking about that, he sent a personal calendar request to Hound to discuss the possibility of mutual stress relief on an occasional basis. He made sure to emphasize that Jazz was aware and would not be murdering _anyone_.

Overall, Prowl assessed himself to be in an unprecedentedly good mood. Which was why it was unfortunate when he opened his office door and found Ravage sitting on his desk.

He immediately opened a silent comm line. _Red Alert, I—_

"You'll regret it if you tell anyone I'm here," said Ravage, idly pawing at a stack of datapads. "I'm here to blackmail you."

Prowl stopped transmitting. The tac unit was calculating so furiously that he actually flinched when Red Alert pinged him with _did you get SHOT are you DEAD what's HAPPENING_.

"If you want me to tell everyone why I'm here, I'm happy to," said Ravage, nudging the datapads ever closer to the edge of the desk. "Your decision."

There were too many scenarios for the tac unit to list. Ravage could be bluffing, but if she wasn't... He needed more information before involving anyone else.

Prowl stepped inside and closed the door. "I'm sorry, Red Alert," he said out loud, into his comm. "I called you to, ah, apologize for my behavior yesterday. It's difficult to know what to say."

_Oh,_ said Red Alert. _Well. That's all right, Prowl, it's nothing I haven't seen before._

That was a little unsettling, but Prowl didn't have time to delve into that. "You're very gracious," he said. "I know that dealing with my problems disrupted your other work."

_No, no, I keep saying we should test all command staff for processor hacks at least twice a day, and Optimus keeps saying it's 'invasive' and 'unnecessary.' Maybe this will be the push he needs to FINALLY agree to my minimum security plan!_

The datapads teetered on the edge of falling. "Thank you," said Prowl. "Well, I'll let you get back to your work."

_Okay, great, you too. Hey, do you think Optimus would go for remote stasis devices, like installed into everyone's—_

Prowl hung up the comm. Ravage flicked the datapads off of the desk and onto the floor.

"Good decision," she said. "Sit down."

Prowl circled his desk so he could sit in his chair with the memory foam door cushion, rather than the guest chair with the wobbly leg. "Jazz likes you," he told Ravage. "That doesn't mean he won't kill you when he hears about this."

Ravage stretched, the platelets of her back raising and then slicking down. "He can try." She produced a little data orb and rolled it Prowl's way. "A message for you from Lord Megatron."

Prowl picked up the orb. It could be a bomb, but that wasn't Ravage's style. She didn't play games with anyone but the best opponents (that was why Jazz liked her). If she said it was blackmail, it was blackmail.

Prowl pressed the activation button.

A hologram of Megatron's worryingly smug face appeared, projected just above Prowl's desk. "Hello, Prowl. Surprised to see me, aren't you?"

There was a moment of silence. Prowl tilted his helm at Ravage, but she only shrugged.

"Hah!" said the hologram, abruptly. "Don't bother responding, you fool, this is only a recording."

Yes, obviously. A data orb wasn't a transceiver. Anyway, was Prowl expected to believe that Megatron had just sat idle at the other end of the connection, waiting for Prowl to arrive at his office?

"I sent Ravage to tell you we know your secret," purred Megatron. "It's actually a little funny—we would have never discovered it if it wasn't for your own actions. You were hoist by your own petard, if you will. Much like Cybertronian society itself. If the hidebound senate hadn't—”

"Is there a way to fast forward this?" asked Prowl.

"Sorry," said Ravage, and she actually sounded sorry. "At least you don't have to listen to the first five takes."

Megatron was still talking. "—what did Barricade know, I wondered. Why have him killed? I looked at his file—”

" _I_ looked at his file!" shrieked Starscream, off camera.

"I looked at his file," said Megatron, more loudly, "and I saw _you_ on his list of past Autobot contacts. And once I started asking my loyal subjects about Prowl of the Praxian Enforcers, some memories started to jog loose. Isn't that right... Scrapper?"

Prowl felt cold.

"Can he see me?" said a voice that Prowl still associated with a seventh overload and the pleasant ache of an overused valve.

"No, I told you, you have to stand on the mark," said Megatron. "Forward, hurry _up_."

Scrapper appeared, crowded close to Megatron and looking uncomfortable about it. "Hey, Prowl. How you been?"

"He can't answer you!" snarled Megatron. "This is just a recording. Tell him what we know!"

"What, about him being a spark factory before the war?" said Scrapper.

"Yes, perfect, go away now," said Megatron, and shoved Scrapper out of frame. "You see, we know all. And we will tell all to the Autobots, tonight, unless you leave them and join us."

"No," said Prowl. No, he _couldn't_.

"Recording," said Ravage, sounding bored.

"What do you think they'll do, Prowl?" said Megatron. "Will they pity you? Despise you? Will you disgust them? Will they fight with each other for the chance to use your frame? Don't delude yourself that they're too enlightened for that—it was Sentinel Prime who put you in that breeding ground, and Optimus Prime has the same matrix in his chest. The best you can hope for is that he'll spark you personally, once he knows, instead of leaving you for the rabble."

"No," said Prowl again. Ravage opened her mouth and he held up a hand. "It's an exclamation, please."

"You would be valued here," said Megatron, coaxingly. "Treasured, even. We've discovered we have many of your sparklings in our ranks, laborers and guards who were too clever for the menial positions they were assigned when their frames didn't turn out to be the perfect enforcer shape. Have you ever wanted to see them?"

Prowl didn't know. He'd spent so long forcing himself not to think of it. He'd assumed that some, maybe most had died in the fall of Praxus. He only knew of—

"And the constructicons would be happy to see you again," said Megatron, as if that would be a key selling point.

"We miss your sweet aft, Prowl!" called someone who sounded suspiciously like Hook. "Hey, do you still do that thing with your—Hrgrfghhk—”

"And you would be respected," said Megatron, as if he'd never been interrupted. "If you choose to share your... prodigious endowments with a lucky few, I hope we may be blessed with a few new soldiers. If you prefer to remain chaste—well, I don't take unwilling mechs to my berth, I promise you. Why should I, when so many beg me for the honor?"

Starscream scoffed. "Then why were you pleading after my spike last night?"

Megatron's optic twitched. "Join us, Prowl. Or take your chances with the Autobots. I expect your answer by tonight." He turned away from the camera. "Soundwave! Edit all of that nonsense out! I don't have time for another take!"

The hologram shut off. Prowl stared at the empty space left behind.

"The boss isn't much good with holograms," said Ravage. "Anyway, I told him we should just let you see the whole mess so you'd know what you were getting into."

"I see," said Prowl, blankly. "Thank you."

"So?" Ravage bumped her helm against Prowl's hand. "Do you have any questions? Hours, benefits? Size of Starscream's spike?"

Prowl shook his head.

Ravage waited for a minute or two, and then huffed. "Fine. Take your time, think about it. I'll be back tonight to either tell the Autobots or take you back with me."

Prowl nodded. Ravage leapt up and hooked her claws into the open vent cover, then scrabbled up and in.

Prowl—Prowl should be strategizing. He should be finding a way _out_ of this. But his helm felt like it was going to burst. He tipped forward and let it rest on the desk.

He realized, with more upset than was appropriate for such a relatively minor issue, that he'd never had his morning ration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: The Reveal


	13. The Decision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter title change - I shifted stuff around in my outline again, haha.
> 
> This chapter contains internalized slut-shaming and references to past abuse. Please let me know if you need details!

"Damn," said Jazz, when Prowl had told him about the Decepticons' 'offer.' "You gonna defect?"

They were in a storage closet. Jazz had tugged him in there when Prowl had sent him an encrypted comm with a request for a meeting place without cameras. Apparently this was it.

Prowl couldn't believe that the depths of his depravity had led to them fragging in conference rooms and in debrief and in his quarters where Red Alert could _see_. Red Alert probably thought he was some kind of interfacing fiend. He _was_ some kind of interfacing fiend.

Had Ravage scrambled the cameras in his office? She must have. Oh, Primus, he'd fragged in his office _so_ many times—

"Babe?" said Jazz, gently, one hand out like he’d thought twice about touching Prowl. "Kinda looks like you're going into a loop there."

Prowl steadied himself against a shelf and took a few deep vents as he compacted all of his worries into a zip file and stored them to address later, or preferably never. "I don't know what I'm going to do," he said. "Why do they want me to leave? Why not become a double agent?"

His tac unit had a few suggestions. Prowl's promiscuity wouldn't do the Decepticons much good if he remained on the Autobot base. Megatron undoubtedly (seventy-eight percent) intended to make some use of Prowl's frame, no matter what he claimed.

"Prolly knew I'd kill you," said Jazz, his mouth twisting. His hand dropped away to his side. "Sounders doesn't like losing assets on fool's errands. You're more use alive and running their battles for them."

Oh. Yes, that was reasonable. Prowl fed the additional data into the tac unit and felt his processor calm, just a little.

"I won't stop you from leaving." Jazz glanced away, his visor fixing on the debris on the floor. "I should, you got all that sweet Autobot tactical information in your memory banks. But, I don't know, Optimus says everyone has the right to choose what's best for them. And I love you."

"I love you too," said Prowl. The conversation from that morning felt so long ago. "I don't want to leave, I just—"

"Yeah." Jazz picked up one of the broken cleaning drones that had been left in the closet, turning it over in his hands. "You don't want anyone to know about the ECU."

Prowl knew Jazz meant it seriously, but it sounded silly when it was said out loud like that. Would it really be better to join the Decepticons, where everyone already knew he needed fragging twice a day minimum, rather than allow the Autobots to learn the truth?

The tac unit tried to analyze the cost/benefits of each route, but it kept sticking on the idea of Optimus or Bumblebee or Ratchet or _anyone_ finding out. Prowl could easily envision the disappointment/disgust/pity that would appear on Optimus' face if he knew. On a purely emotional level, he'd do anything to avoid that. 

Jazz was fiddling with the drone. As Prowl watched, he carefully pulled out a broken spring from the underside of its housing.

"I'm still thinking about it," said Prowl, packing away the thoughts of Optimus along with the rest of his worries. "I haven't made up my mind."

Jazz nodded. He didn't say anything else, didn't try to persuade Prowl to stay. He just got down a box of spare parts from a higher shelf and started picking through it. His visor was glowing softly in the dark of the closet, highlighting his fingers in blue as they sought out a working spring. Prowl impulsively took an image capture. He didn't have any of Jazz. He'd never thought he needed one.

"Why'd you join the Autobots?" asked Jazz, not looking up from the parts.

"Being part of an organized force was a better strategic position than being a refugee," said Prowl, almost automatically. "The Autobots also had a clear hole in the command structure that I could use to make myself valuable and less likely to be exploited for my frame."

"Yeah, that's a sound piece of analysis." Jazz started feeding the spring into the cleaning drone. "If you'd run into some of the Decepticons out in the wreckage, you might've joined them instead, right?"

"Maybe," said Prowl. He hadn't thought about it. The tac unit didn't deal in past hypotheticals, only future ones. He didn't like the idea, though. If he'd joined the Decepticons, he would probably be a subordinate tactician working for Soundwave or Starscream. He wouldn't have a voice in command meetings, or the ability to overrule Wheeljack and Ironhide's more absurd plans. He'd never have met Jazz, except at the end of a knife if he was unlucky.

Prowl had to pack more away into the zip file. "Why did you join the Autobots?" he asked Jazz, desperate for a distraction.

"Aw, that's a fun story." Jazz smiled down at the cleaning drone. "I never told you before? I'd been sleeping under this warehouse for a little while, and then one day I woke up and there was a fragging firefight right over me. I pop up, start stabbing people indiscriminately because, you know, they're there, everyone starts screaming and shooting at me, and I jump behind this big overturned storage locker to take cover and there's this big hauler already there, looking at me with wide bright optics like 'who the frag is this clown.' So I go to stab _him_ , but he's like 'please don't,' and I'm like 'oh, okay, if you're gonna be polite about it.'"

"Right," said Prowl, wondering how many mechs had died for want of a 'please.' "That makes sense."

Jazz nodded, tapping the cleaning drone to restart it. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. So that was Optimus, and he explained what all the fighting was about, like that the Decepticons were fighting for freedom but that included the freedom to conquer Cybertron and everywhere else and rule them with an iron fist, and the Autobots were fighting for freedom too but mostly the freedom to live in peace and make your own decisions and not get conquered by anybody. That whole thing about mechs having rights, you know? And I was like, mechs have _rights_? Why didn't anyone tell me? I've been killing 'em all over the place and all along they had rights!"

The cleaning drone whirred into life, squirming in Jazz's hands. Jazz set it down on the floor and smiled as it started gobbling up metal shavings. "It was nice," he said. "Talkin' to Optimus. It was like when you're overcharged at a club, and everyone is beautiful and kind, and you're moving together to the music, and someone tells you your engravings are gorgeous and they don't even wanna frag you, they just wanted you know. But you could feel like that all the time? He said it was called 'compassion,' and I was like 'sign me _up_.'"

The drone bumped against Prowl's foot and beeped at him until he nudged it in another direction. His tac unit noted his steep increase in melancholy and suggested the obvious means of attitude correction.

"Jazz," Prowl said, "will you frag me?"

"Of course, babe." Jazz turned that dazzling smile on Prowl. "How d'you want it?"

They fragged standing up, Prowl slumped forward on the shelves as Jazz took his aft. It felt good. It always felt good with Jazz, Prowl didn't know why he felt like—like he was dying, a little, every time Jazz thrust into him.

"Love you," said Jazz, into Prowl's audial. "Aw, Prowler, love you so much. I'm really gonna miss you when you're gone."

\---

Afterward they cleaned up and Jazz went back to his shift. The thought of returning to his office made Prowl feel a little sick, so he went to the mess hall instead. He collected his ration and skated past the loud, crowded tables, seeking somewhere he could just sit and—and decide.

There weren't any empty tables, but Smokescreen was sitting at a table alone, making notes on a datapad. Prowl took a seat opposite him.

"Commander!" Smokescreen swept his datapad off the table and into his lap. "How are you?"

"Fine," lied Prowl. He contemplated Smokescreen for a moment, watching as he shifted from nervousness to defiance to mild embarrassment. Smokescreen looked so much like his other spark donor. Prowl had noticed it when Smokescreen had first joined the Autobot main force. His brief panic at the possibility of being found out had faded once he realized that Smokescreen had no way of recognizing him. He hadn't even been framed the last time he had 'seen' Prowl.

Prowl would probably be incubating sparks again soon, no matter what path he chose. Both the Decepticons and the Autobots needed more mechs. It wasn't worth both the tactical and moral sacrifice to take a soldier out of active duty in order to incubate one spark over several weeks, but if everyone knew that Prowl could incubate dozens...

Smokescreen squirmed under the force of Prowl's blank stare. "Listen," he said, "whatever you've heard about my, uh, my hobbies, it's all totally above-board and—"

"Yes, I'm sure." Prowl reset his optics and took a sip of his energon. "You have a working processor, Smokescreen. Can I ask you about a hypothetical scenario I'm analyzing?"

"Uhh, sure." Smokescreen fidgeted again with the datapad he clearly didn't want Prowl to see. Prowl pretended he hadn't noticed.

"Imagine," said Prowl, running a finger over the rim of his cube, "that you were being blackmailed by the Decepticons. You must choose between defecting, or allowing your darkest secrets to be shared with every Autobot on the base. What would you do?"

Smokescreen snapped the datapad. "Oh _slag_ , I—Ow, fragging Primus, my hand—Prowl, I don't know what you've heard, but—"

"Here, let me see," said Prowl, reaching out, but Smokescreen flinched back.

"It's broken, sorry, definitely didn't do it on purpose. Doesn't matter anyway, I was just. Doodling."

"Not the datapad, your hand," said Prowl. "You hurt your hand."

"It's fine!" said Smokescreen, unconvincingly. "Anyway, I'd _never_ consider defecting, no matter how bad my gambling debts got—Not that I even have gambling debts, I've never gambled in my life, and—"

"Let me see," insisted Prowl.

Smokescreen reluctantly surrendered his hand to examination. He was bleeding from a small cut in his knuckle, where the jagged edge of the display glass had caught in a seam. Prowl fished a first aid kit from his subspace.

"Maybe I gamble a little," admitted Smokescreen, his door wings flicking with agitation. "But I wouldn't even _consider_ —Did Jazz tell you something? Because he was here asking me questions yesterday, and he was acting kinda weird—"

"This might sting," said Prowl, and sprayed sealant into Smokescreen's knuckle seam. Smokescreen's finger's clamped around Prowl's free hand for a moment, but Prowl just squeezed back until Smokescreen relaxed. "There. It was a _hypothetical_ scenario, Smokescreen. Calm down. How do you play cyber poker, with a face like that?"

"Badly," grumbled Smokescreen, but then he settled down to rub at his knuckles and actually contemplate the scenario. His processor whirred a little, and the heat of his vents kicked up a few degrees. 

He was the best tactician in Prowl's small department, and sometimes Prowl thought he should ask Smokescreen if he would consent to a tac unit installation. He knew Smokescreen had the specs to handle it. But something had always held Prowl back. It was fine, anyway, most calculations could be done with Teletraan I, and they had Prowl's tac unit if they needed anything more complex.

Would they upgrade Smokescreen anyway, if Prowl left? It would be the right strategic move.

"I wouldn't defect," said Smokescreen at last.

Prowl carefully packed away the first aid kit. "Why not?"

"The better play is to come clean," said Smokescreen. "If I defect, I'm a target for Autobots, and I'll be treated with suspicion and hostility by the Decepticons as a forced convert. If I wait until the Decepticons reveal my 'secrets,' I'll be treated with suspicion and hostility here instead. But if I tell my superiors up front, I get ahead of the problem and I reaffirm my loyalty. And, I mean. You're my superior, you're the one I'd be telling. I figure you'd be able to handle the situation a lot better than I could on my own."

Something seized in Prowl's spark. He dropped his gaze down to the table, just until he'd controlled himself. "Excellent analysis. I'm encouraged that you trust me that much."

If Smokescreen came to him with a problem—gambling debts, say—yes, obviously Prowl would help him fix it. Smokescreen was an invaluable asset, and as his superior Prowl owed him a duty of care. It was good that Smokescreen knew that.

If Prowl came to _Optimus_... He knew Optimus believed he had a duty of care for all Autobots. He'd try to fix Prowl. And if he couldn't fix Prowl, he'd ensure that Prowl was given new duties in line with his capabilities.

Prowl took another sip of his ration, fighting against another surge of that miserable queasy feeling that had kept him from his office.

"Of course I trust you," said Smokescreen. Prowl looked up, and he thought for a moment that Smokescreen seemed oddly concerned—but then Smokescreen's wings flicked up and he was his normal flippant self again. "You're way better than the commander back at New Kalis, let me tell you. _He_ was a stuck-up aft."

"A model of the old Praxian guard, I see." Prowl forced himself to finish his cube. "You do realize that many Autobots might apply the same description to me?"

Smokescreen shook his head firmly. "They don't get it. You know what Praxians were like—so concerned about hierarchy and the right way of doing things. Everyone had to be in their neat little defined boxes, and if you tried to get out of your box, surprise! They have a box for that too."

The metaphor was a little confusing, but Prowl did know what he meant. "It was worse in Praxus proper," he said. "Even talking about hobbies was discouraged on the force. Everyone had their... predilections, we knew that. But if you didn't keep it to yourself, then you were an obsessive and a liability. I remember one of the sergeants used to like mica flakes in his energon. A captain made a joke about his sweet tooth, and he was left off a promotion list. 'Temperament issues.' I never saw him using energon additives again."

"Primus," said Smokescreen. "Energon additives! Can you imagine what they'd do to me, just because I like to have a little flutter now and again?"

Smokescreen would've been pushed out of the force and into a gambling den, no doubt. Praxus had its underworld—it just liked to have clear lines between respectable people and the deviants. Much better that Smokescreen was here, where Prowl could keep an eye on him.

Where Jazz could keep an eye on him, if Prowl was gone.

"It doesn't have to be like that," said Smokescreen, waving an emphatic hand. "Frag, that's why I wouldn't defect. We're out here fighting for second chances and better ways of living. That's the side I want to be on."

Jazz pinged Prowl's comm. _High command meeting coming up. If you're gonna go, you should tell 'em you're gonna be late and go now while everyone's busy._

Prowl stood up. He looked at Smokescreen for a moment, hesitating. It probably wouldn't be suspicious. It would be fine. "You're a good mech, Smokescreen," he said, carefully. "I'm very proud of you."

"Thanks?" Smokescreen tilted his helm. "Sorry I got distracted, complaining about old slag that doesn’t matter. Did I help with your analysis at all?"

"Yes," Prowl assured him. "You helped a great deal."

Smokescreen's resemblance to his other spark donor was especially obvious when he smiled. A little flash of Barricade’s cleverness and charm, without the cruelty that had poisoned him. For a moment Prowl forgot his problems and smiled back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: The Meeting


	14. The Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter again includes internalized slut-shaming and references to past abuse, plus explicit sex. Please let me know if you need details!

Everyone was already in the conference room when Prowl opened the door. The agenda was still being distributed, at least. He wasn't late.

_What are you doing?_ commed Jazz. He was laughing at something Ratchet had said, and he didn't look around at Prowl. _If you're gonna go,_ go _, I can't—_

Prowl shut off his comms. He needed to concentrate.

He walked slowly to the empty seat at the end of the table, between Red Alert and Ironhide. He stood behind it, gripping the back of the chair, and took a deep vent.

"Are we ready to get started?" said Optimus, picking up his agenda.

"Actually," said Prowl, "I have an announcement to make."

He straightened into attention, flaring his door wings and fixing his gaze over Optimus' helm so he wouldn't have to see anyone's expression when he said: "I was contacted by a Decepticon operative today. Megatron is attempting to blackmail me into defection."

Commotion around the table. Ironhide swore, and Red Alert seemed stunned into silence—except for the sparks rising from his helm. Prowl cleared his vocalizer.

"They discovered my secret," he said. "When I joined the Autobots I didn't come directly from a precinct tactical unit, as I led you to believe. Rather, I had been assigned for some time to the Enforcer Construction Unit. I—”

He had to clear static from his vocalizer again. Why was this so difficult? He was only explaining. It should be easier than the web of assumptions and half-truths he'd spun around himself for so long. He would explain, and then he would be done, and whatever happened after that would be someone else's responsibility.

"Prowl," said Optimus, sounding... uncertain? Prowl wrestled with the temptation to look at him and pin down exactly how he was reacting to the news. How bad it would be. "Maybe this would be better discussed in private. We can—”

"No," said Prowl. He shut off his optics—that made it easier, he didn't have to worry about glimpsing anyone's expressions. "No, you all deserve to know. The ECU generated new enforcers not through science or innovation, but by the wholesale breeding of those assigned there. Due to a missing line of code and an unusually strong spark, I was able to produce hundreds of newsparks during my residence. But I disliked the role I was so obviously suited for. I found it... dull. When I escaped during the bombing, I misled you into thinking I was a normal tactician because I feared being put to that use again."

He paused to take another deep vent. No one was saying anything this time, not even in a mutter. Prowl shuddered to think of how Ratchet—how Jazz—how _Optimus_ was taking this. At least with his optics offline, he didn't have to see.

"I understand now that my deception was a mistake," he said. "My tactical unit had become too accustomed to—to being fragged multiple times per day. I needed regular valve and aft stimulation to keep it functional. When my preferred interfacing partner was unavailable, I ran rampant across the base in pursuit of another. And despite my desperation to keep my needs a secret, I allowed my weakness to grow until Megatron learned I was nothing but a petty hedonist, to be easily lured away from the Autobots with trite words and empty promises."

Prowl dropped his helm. He was struggling to get enough air in his system, but he was almost done. Almost.

"On that last part, at least, he was wrong. I wasn't interested in the Autobot cause when I joined. I was only thinking that anything was better than the boredom of the ECU. But I know now that you all believe in compassion. In second chances. I hope you will find a better post for me, as I tender my resignation as—”

"What?" said Optimus.

The interruption was so unexpected that Prowl's optics flicked on by instinct. Optimus looked—not disgusted, not pitying, not darkly eager, but _baffled_.

"I'm resigning?" said Prowl. His optics flicked around the room, finding some mild dismay and surprise but nothing like the revulsion or lust he'd expected. "I'm not fit for command."

"I'm really not following," said Optimus, apologetically. "Your interfacing habits are your own business, and you were never under any obligation to disclose your background. Setting aside the, um, the incident yesterday, you've always behaved impeccably. It's not your fault that Megatron's—”

"I haven't behaved _impeccably_ ," said Prowl. He might have wanted to avoid vulgarity, but Optimus clearly needed it beaten into his helm. "I'm a spike-hungry aft-slut. I can't be trusted with command even if I wasn't clearly compromised by—”

"Primus' rusted bearings," said Ratchet, slamming his hands on the table. "If spike-hungry aft-sluts aren't allowed to command, then that's Optimus out too."

Optimus' biolights flushed. "Ratchet, please."

"I'm sorry, Optimus," grumbled Ratchet, "but nothing else has been getting through to him!" He turned back to Prowl. "If you'd just stop cancelling the appointments I keep trying to schedule, we could fix—”

"That's the problem," said Prowl, realizing it even as he spoke. "I don't want to be fixed. I _want_ to be a—” He cut himself off at Optimus' wince. "I want to be this way. I like it."

He felt like he was going down a tunnel, the world narrowing down to a point. Good officers didn't want the things Prowl wanted. So Prowl couldn't be a good officer. It had been foolish of him to try to trick everyone—to trick himself—into believing anything else. Prowl already knew what he was good for, and it wasn't second-in-command of the Autobots.

"I have to resign," he said.

Optimus shifted uncomfortably and looked at Ratchet. Ratchet opened his mouth to say something, but then he grimaced and shook his head at the room. "Everyone out," he announced. "Me, Prowl, private conference. Okay? Out. Shoo."

Optimus pushed his chair back so quickly that it toppled over, and then had to set it back on its legs before he could flee. Ironhide and Wheeljack were close on his heels, but bizarrely Red Alert lingered to pat Prowl on the arm before he too left. Only Jazz remained seated, his feet up on the conference table and his fingers laced behind his helm. He smiled as Ratchet flapped his hands at him.

"Maybe I should stick around," he said. "You know, provide security—Ow! Ratchet, c'mon."

"Out!" insisted Ratchet, not looking at all apologetic at having flicked Jazz's audial horn. "I need to talk to Prowl _alone_. Don't worry, I won't break him."

Jazz looked hard at Ratchet, and for a moment Prowl thought he might make a fuss. But whatever he saw in Ratchet's face made him relax. "Okay," he said, and slid out of his chair. "I'm trusting you, Ratch."

Once the door closed behind Jazz, Ratchet pulled out what had been Red Alert's chair and took it for himself. "Sit down," he said to Prowl. "Try to relax."

"I'm fine," said Prowl, and carefully unpeeled his fingers from the dents they'd made in the back of his chair.

"Sure you are." Ratchet waited until Prowl had eased himself into his chair, and then said "what do you think would happen if the tac unit was fixed?"

Prowl resisted the urge to hunch his shoulders. "You said the priority tree could be recalibrated. It would stop pushing me to interface. I would be able to focus more exclusively on my work without any distractions. I know it's the correct choice, but I—”

"Okay, pause," said Ratchet. "We'll come back to that. What if we don't recalibrate the tac unit, and Optimus accepts your resignation. What do you figure happens then?"

"I don't know," said Prowl. That answer didn't seem good enough, especially with Ratchet watching him expectantly. "I mean. I have a dream sometimes about being bent over the conference table and—”

Ratchet covered his mouth, but an odd sort of giggling snort still escaped him. "Sorry," he gasped. "Sorry, I know you're—But Primus, can you imagine what Optimus would do if you started some kind of orgy in here? I can barely convince him to frag with the lights on. Mech wouldn't know where to look."

"He could look at _me_ ," said Prowl, feeling oddly offended.

"Uhuh," said Ratchet, and then managed to school his face back into that odd expression of deliberate openness. "But you don't like doing nothing but interfacing, right? That's what you were saying about the ECU?"

"I like being a tactician," said Prowl. "I like solving problems, and helping run the army. But I—I enjoy interfacing. I don’t want to give it up. If you recalibrate the tac unit—”

"Yeah, great, let's talk about the recalibration process," said Ratchet. " _If_ you consent to it, it's gonna be long and complicated, and there'll be plenty of opportunities for you to take a break or reverse course if you don't like where it's headed. There's not a magic button I can press that will turn your libido off, Prowl, not even if you wanted me to."

"Oh," said Prowl. He was a little embarrassed to realize that was exactly what he'd expected—that Ratchet would make a few adjustments to the tac unit, and then Prowl would go back to being a normal mech. He'd get rid of his plugs and stop having inappropriate dreams. He'd interface with Jazz once a week or so during their off shifts, in a proper berth and never in his office. He'd enjoy it in moderation, not too little and not too much. 

It wouldn't be _so_ awful, would it? To be normal?

"The problem with the tac unit," continued Ratchet, "isn't that it's making you like interfacing—the tac unit is external analysis software, it's strictly read-only when it comes to your preference matrix. The problem, as far as I can tell when you haven't let me run a proper diagnostic, is that the tac unit has gotten fixated on interfacing being the _only_ thing you like, the only thing worth pursuing. I don't think's that true, do you?"

Prowl thought about the satisfaction of a perfectly-designed battle plan reaching its final step, and of watching Smokescreen's doors flicker as he scribbled on a datapad. He thought of Jazz's smile, and the way it made Prowl's spark swirl in his chest.

"I have other interests," he allowed.

Ratchet cocked his helm, but he didn't pry. "It's common for a tac unit to fixate on one high-value activity to try and efficiently maximize its user's pleasure. The kind of bargaining behavior you mentioned the other day—overloading so the tac unit would run better—that's textbook fixation. Recalibration would primarily mean teaching the tac unit that all of those other interests are valuable too, and that it can trust you to decide what you want to pursue."

Prowl—Prowl couldn't quite believe what he was hearing, but the tac unit was buzzing in the back of his helm, digesting all the new data. "I could still interface?" he asked, just to make sure he understood.

" _Yes_ , you can get fragged up the aft as much as you want," said Ratchet. "That's the first step of recalibration, figuring out what _you_ want. Here, give it a shot. Hit me with something."

Prowl turned the concept over in his processor. He'd spent so much time thinking in terms of what he _didn't_ want, it was difficult to focus on the reverse.

"I want my conception code deleted," he said, testing it out. "The whole thing."

"No problem," said Ratchet, leaning back in his chair. "I've done that procedure so many times, I could do it in my sleep. What else?"

"I want amnesty for anyone I helped create," said Prowl. "Megatron said a number of them joined the Decepticons."

"We already have amnesty for willing defectors," said Ratchet. "I mean, I don't want to say 'dream bigger,' but—”

"Active amnesty," clarified Prowl. "I want Jazz to go _get_ them."

"Okay, that one we'll have to run by Optimus." Ratchet nodded to himself. "Anything else?" 

Prowl couldn't think of anything. All of his anxieties seemed so easily solved by Ratchet’s unquestioning acceptance. Except—it was frivolous, but—

"There was this thing once," he said, hesitantly, "with a hose?"

\---

Prowl walked out of the conference room some time later, half-tripping over his own feet as his processor churned through a dozen different things Ratchet had said. Self-determination, bodily autonomy, negotiated consent... Once Prowl had started explaining the ‘thing with the hose,’ Ratchet had seemed unable to help himself. He'd worked himself up into a froth before he remembered that the ECU was gone and there wouldn't be much satisfaction got from bombing it again.

All of that righteous fury, and none of it directed at Prowl. _And_ he'd readily agreed to install latches in Prowl's chest plate so he could easily open it to accommodate filled overflow pouches. Prowl was still wrapping his processor around that, too.

He'd been sure—he'd been _so_ sure he knew how it was going to go, when he walked into that room. He couldn't keep living as a tactician with a shameful secret, and so he'd gritted his teeth and prepared to squeeze himself into the last ill-fitting space left to him. But he'd been wrong. The world was open now, even the oldest walls crumbling, and Prowl had so many choices he didn't know how to—

Jazz was leaning against the corridor wall, whistling something low-pitched and reverberating through his vents. He stopped when he caught Prowl looking at him, and smiled.

"So?" he said. "Can I still call you sir?"

"You never call me sir," said Prowl. "But. Yes. I'm withdrawing my resignation."

"Neat," said Jazz, and thank Primus didn't ask any other questions, because Prowl would need a long time before he came up with answers. He just caught Prowl's hand and began tugging him down the corridor. "Come on, let's go to your office."

"I'm," said Prowl, and then hesitated as he realized the complete incomprehensibility of what he was about to say. "I'm, um. Not actually in the mood for—”

"What?" Jazz glanced over his shoulder at Prowl. "Oh! No, babe, I got a different fun couple's activity for us. I think you'll like it."

\---

Ravage landed on Prowl's desk without the barest noise, her optics bright in the gloom of the windowless office. She seemed pleased to find Prowl sitting in his chair, waiting for her.

"So," she said, "decided to throw in with us, huh? Good choice, avoids all the awkward conversations. I told Soundwave you wouldn't get scared off by—” She paused, her tail twitching as she scented the air. "What's that?"

"What?" said Prowl, trying to look like a cowed defector and probably failing at it.

Ravage was too busy sniffing to notice. "It smells like... like benzene and ozo—”

The armor plates along her spine rose, and her legs tensed. When Jazz melted out of the shadows along the wall, Ravage was already leaping toward the safety of the vents. Unfortunately for her, Prowl activated the force generator Jazz had set up at the vent entrance. Ravage slammed into the force field face first and fell back to the desk, sprawling ungainly on her back.

Jazz switched off his vibroblade and let his visor brighten into cheerful, oversaturated blue. "What's new, pussycat?"

Ravage got to her feet with an air of longsuffering dignity. At no point did her optics leave Jazz. "Not much," she said. "I take it you're here to cover up Prowl's secrets? Killing me won’t help with that. Unless—” One ear twitched back towards Prowl and she smirked. "What did he tell you? Did you know he fragged half the mechs in Praxus?"

"I was hardly that prolific," said Prowl, drily. "Jazz knows everything. Autobot command knows everything. I came clean."

Ravage's nose wrinkled.

"I know," said Jazz, sympathetically. "Ruins the game, doesn't it? Now, I know you're in a hurry to get back to Sounders, but I ain't in a hurry to let you. I don't like 'Cons crawling around in my ductwork, and I definitely don't like them coming into my boo's office without an appointment to threaten him."

Ravage's optics flickered to the inactive blade still held loosely in Jazz's hand. "You don't say."

"Lucky for you," said Jazz, and the knife disappeared, "I like you. Maybe I could be persuaded to let bygones be bygones. We're all about second chances, right, Prowl?"

"Right," said Prowl, now attempting to look menacing. "For a price."

"Hmm." Ravage sat down. "What do you want? Battle plans? Troop rosters? I don't have any good intel. I know you Autobots like to go to command meetings in the morning and infiltrate in the afternoon, but _some_ of us practice good information hygiene."

"Oh, you don't have to tell us anything," said Jazz, pacing around the desk until Ravage was forced to turn her helm to watch him. "You can just sit tight in a cell while we negotiate with your boss. I'm thinking we can get energon, weapons, maybe a list of Prowlets and their duty assignments..."

Prowl forced himself to remain still and silent. _You were listening to my conversation with Ratchet?_ he commed Jazz.

_What?_ Jazz didn't look away from Ravage as he continued to list possible concessions. _No—I mean, I won't say I wasn't tempted, but I told you I was gonna trust you to tell me what you want, and I meant it. I had to walk halfway down the corridor and shut off half my audio suite to avoid listening in, though._ He hesitated for a moment, a light buzz of static the only indication that the comm link hadn't dropped. _Do you not want the list? I just thought—You don't have to do anything with it, but I kept thinking about being on a mission, hurting one of your mechs by accident, and I—_

_I want the list,_ commed Prowl. He'd have to tell Jazz all about his plans, though it would likely be best to get Optimus' approval first. Otherwise Jazz might jump the gun, start hauling Decepticons into the base, and give Red Alert transmission failure. _Thank you._

Jazz pinged Prowl love/happy/proud/ _love_. Out loud, Ravage was complaining about the long list of demands. "I'm not worth that much," she argued. "You ask Megatron for all that, and he'll tell you to keep me."

"I mean, I wouldn't mind." Jazz grinned. "Ever think about defecting, Rav?"

"Frag off," said Ravage, which Prowl noted wasn't a 'no.'

"Anyway," said Jazz, "I didn't say I was going to _Megatron_ with this. Soundwave's the one with the intel I need, and his soft spot for cassettes is fragging legendary."

Ravage's tail lashed, but she didn't deny it. Prowl picked up a blank datapad and started typing up their 'requests.'

\---

**Epilogue**

"Oh, Primus, they're so soft," said Jazz. He sunk one hand into an overflow pouch and squeezed until Prowl moaned and bucked underneath him. Jazz rode him easily, his open valve and fully-extended spike sliding wetly against Prowl's abdomen.

Prowl felt almost overwhelmed with pleasure. With his conception code gone there was no need for a cap on his transfluid uptake valve, and the new quick-release latches on his chest plates worked like a charm. For the first time in _years_ Prowl could feel his tits filling and swelling as the spike fragging his valve let out another spurt of fluid.

Recalibrating the tac unit was as much work as Ratchet had promised, and Prowl's official duties hadn't gotten any easier or less important. But there were rewards for living honestly. 

Jazz cupped both of Prowl's tits in his hands, squishing them together. "Can't wait to frag these," he purred. "You want that, babe?"

"Yes," panted Prowl. He arched his back against his berth, pressing his chest up into Jazz's hands. "Yes, yes, want to feel you, want you to overload—”

Jazz let go of one pouch and ran his thumb over Prowl's lower lip. "I got you, sweetspark. I'm gonna overload all over you." He twisted to look over his shoulder. "Bee, hurry up and overload some more, I need these bigger if I'm gonna get a proper titjob."

"Frag you," grunted Bumblebee, thrusting hard and fast into Prowl's valve. "I'm running dry back here, I _can't_ overload again."

"Hmm." Jazz leaned forward, his bumper pressing down against the plush cushion of Prowl's overflow pouches. "You feel good?" he whispered.

"Mhm," said Prowl, suckling on Jazz's thumb and angling his head to try to get Jazz to kiss his neck.

Jazz obligingly nipped at Prowl's neck cables. "What about Bee's spike? His spike as good as mine?"

"Nnn," said Prowl, still muffled by thumb.

"Come on, tell me about it." Jazz rutted his array against Prowl's abdomen, and just the _feel_ of him made Prowl's valve tighten like a vise. Bumblebee yelped and his rhythm stuttered.

"I dunno why it turns me on so much, but it does," said Jazz. "Thinking about you taking it from another mech. Watching him wreck you from a front row seat. He's not bad at it, I gotta say. What do you think, better'n me?"

"Nnn," said Prowl again, and reluctantly released Jazz's hand. "Nnno, no, no one's better than you. Love your spike, Jazz, it's _so_ good, wish you were fragging me right now—”

"Hey!" snapped Bumblebee. " _You're_ the ones who asked me to join, if my spike's not good enough for you, then maybe I'll take it where it's appreci—Ohhh. Oh, Primus."

Prowl turned up the vibration from his aft plug even more, making Bumblebee _squeal_. "This spike is good too," he said. "Want both."

"You'll get them," promised Jazz. He sat up again and shuffled forward on his knees, the head of his spike bumping against the underside of Prowl's tits. "You just gotta make Bee overload again, can you do that for me?"

"I'm _dry_ ," wailed Bumblebee.

Prowl didn't bother acknowledging that defeatist nonsense. Instead he answered by triggering the vibrator Jazz had pressed into his spike housing back when Bumblebee was still licking Prowl's valve open. The ensuing overload was so long and clenched his valve so hard, it almost felt as if he was sucking the transfluid straight out of Bumblebee's spike.

It wasn't the same as a hose. But his pouches were big enough now that the tops were bumping against Prowl's chin. Jazz almost giggled as he pressed his spike between them.

"All right," he said, over his shoulder. "Take us for a ride, Bee, you're driving."

"I'm gonna die here," whimpered Bumblebee, and started thrusting again.

Not so long ago, Prowl would've looked down at the spectacle and shaken his helm at the sheer volume of the depravity. A vibrator in his aft and spike housing, one mech plowing his valve and another using his chest. Every part of him just another thing to frag. No one could _enjoy_ that, he would've thought. Not unless he were forced.

"Good?" panted Jazz. There was lubricant from his spike painting the inner curve of Prowl's tits, and _still_ he wanted to know if Prowl was having fun.

"Good," Prowl assured him. "So good. It couldn't be better."

"Oh." Jazz grinned. "That sounds like a _challenge_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue epilogue: please imagine Prowl, post tac net recalibration and bonus trauma treatment, surrounded by a big mixed group of Decepticons, Autobots, and neutrals who are all different shapes and sizes but have a very consistent processor structure. They all think Prowl is pretty neat. He is trying to figure out what the hell to say them. Smokescreen is learning all of his spark-siblings' special interests. Jazz can't get over the fact that half of Prowl's kids could pick Prowl up with one hand.
> 
> Soundwave is scrambling to deal with massive personnel losses, made worse by the fact that every single one of Prowl's kids had managed to work their way up into some kind of load-bearing administrative position, no matter what their initial assignment.
> 
> And Ratchet has convinced Optimus to try out one of those aft plugs Prowl seems to like so much.
> 
> \---
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! This was really fun to work on - even though it ended up a lot longer than I was expecting, haha. All of the comments and feedback really kept me going. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did :)

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this fic, please let me know! You can also share it on [DW](https://neveralarch.dreamwidth.org/110735.html), [tumblr](https://neveralarch.tumblr.com/post/632715144414347264/the-long-way-round), or [twitter](https://twitter.com/neveralarch/status/1319399775264002051).


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